


Polaris

by LastAmericanMermaid



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, X-Men (Movies), X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Still Have Powers, Angst, Charles is a soldier, Emotional Manipulation, Erik is not a Happy Bunny, Europe, Heavy Angst, Honestly Charles What Are You Thinking, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Past Rape/Non-con, Period-Typical Homophobia, Plotty, Sad, WWII, World War II, author tried to do research, but I really tried, not totally historically accurate, sorry about my timeline
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-20
Updated: 2017-08-20
Packaged: 2018-03-31 11:02:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 10
Words: 27,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3975652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LastAmericanMermaid/pseuds/LastAmericanMermaid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>***FINALLY BACK ON TRACK - SO SORRY FOR THE 2 YEAR DELAY***</p>
<p>Charles Xavier is 19 years old, doe-eyed and soft; Erik Lehnsherr is 24 years old, steely-hard and bitter. </p>
<p>One is a soldier, the other a refugee. </p>
<p>Both are mutants. </p>
<p>There will be pain, oh yes. </p>
<p>(An AU in which Charles is a wounded British soldier, Erik is the German hiding in France who nurses him back to health, and the contents of this fic are best read to the soundtrack of Atonement.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is my first X-Men: First Class fanfic, and it IS an AU. 
> 
> There is a lot of pining and a lot of angst and there are a lot of serious bad feels ahead. 
> 
> Please, come be sad with me. 
> 
> *Title taken from Jimmy Eat World's song Polaris*

 

Charles Francis Xavier, aged nineteen, did not want to die in France.

He had given up entirely on the idea that he might survive this bloody war, even that he might survive the deep and ragged wounds suppurating on his body; he had hoped, still, to be able to die somewhere he was not surrounded by the corpses of men he had known.

The rocky beach his boat had wound up on provided little comfort by way of a resting place, and the smell of salt and lush greenness seemed to Charles not unpleasant for a final sensory experience.

Gulls screamed overhead, the sounds of water echoing in his mind.

_So this is how it would end_ , he thought; _alone and bleeding out on a beach in a foreign land_. Festering wounds in his leg and shoulder.

The pain was no longer searing, and light had begun to creep in at the edges of Charles’ mind.

He closed his eyes and offered up a silent prayer. He wished, with a pang, that he could have seen his sister Raven one last time.

He felt, though, almost peaceful, he decided.

His only regret, a keen sting felt with his final burst of consciousness, was so deep and dark and secret still that shame forced tears to the corners of his eyes.

He wondered if his strange abilities, dampened and weak as they were, might find some mind to brush past one last time.

Charles reached but could not feel anyone. He let the lightness overtake him, then, let the weakness leave his body.

 

Everything in his mind went golden, like sunrise.

 

Then, darkness.

..............

 

In the summer of 1939, Charles Xavier had everything a young man could want and yet, he still felt unfulfilled.

Perhaps it would be more on the nose to say he had everything a young man should want; wealth, good looks, academic success, and attention from young and pretty women. Charles had seen the way the society girls eyed him at parties, the way they giggled and batted their lashes when he spoke.

His mother, Sharon, had been pushing suggestions his way about this girl or that girl since he had turned sixteen, practically--that is, when she awoke from the haze of her drunken stupor long enough to notice that Charles existed at all.

 

That summer, Charles had been restless and irritable for a multitude of reasons, though he blamed the sweltering heat.

Xavier Mansion was a big, beautiful oven in summertime. All that cool marble and those big bay windows did little to discourage sweating and overheating.

Charles’ parents were sitting in the parlor when he approached them tentatively, wringing his hands and biting his lip.

He had come to a decision about his future, and they wouldn’t like what it was.

They could not stop him, though; he had already made the arrangements, so to speak.

The _look_ on his mother’s face, a face which was normally a smooth mask of regal indifference, was one of shock and almost revulsion.

“Charles Francis, I _forbid_ this. You cannot simply _abandon_ your studies and join the army _._ The army is no place for a boy like you _.”_

And there it was.

_A boy like you._

His mother went on to detail precisely _why_ Charles could not join in the fight against the Germans, while Charles himself tried very valiantly not to let himself have reaction.

He wasn’t tall, no; he wasn’t the strongest, but he was strong enough.

He had a weak constitution (his mother’s words for allergies), and his skin was very fair. He was a brilliant scholar of literature and philosophy and language and science, why on _earth_ would he wish to go and get himself killed by a couple of Krauts?

Charles’ mother didn’t know, though, that her son was gifted beyond the realm of physical strength.

 

For as long as Charles could remember, he could sense the thoughts of others.

As a young child, it had been strong emotions, vague images and shapes and colours only.

When he got older, though, he learned that he could influence minds, impress upon them his own thoughts and hear others’ most private inner notions.

The root of it, though, was that Charles had always been delicate, quick to catch cold or freckle in the sun.

Sharon had remarked, in that airy way of hers, on more than one occasion that he would have made a most beautiful daughter.

 

Charles’ mother had grown so distraught during her diatribe that she excused herself to her private rooms and left the parlor with Charles and his father sitting, blinking dumbly at one another.

“Charles, son. . .” Brian Xavier’s eyes had a hard look to them now, shining with something Francis could not identify.“Your mother doesn’t realize herself sometimes.”

“She wants me to stay here and continue on as if—as if nothing is happening in the world. As if there’s nothing _I_ can do to help.”

His father sighed, sipped at his brandy. The air was stifling, and Charles felt sweat bead on his brow and upper lip.

“You’ll be a fine soldier, Charles.”

Charles blinked at that.

Those were the last words he expected to hear, and honestly Charles had no idea what to make of them.

He searched the familiar terrain of his father’s mind and found only truth there.

“When do you leave for training?”

“Two weeks time, sir.”

It all felt surreal, like a waking dream. His mother’s response had gone as expected, but this. . . _this_ was powerful enough to take the floor out from under Charles’ feet.

He was not being met with opposition, he was..he was being commended.

That steely shine in his father’s eyes was pride, unmistakable now.

Raven cried and cursed at him when she’d found out (he’d told her first, weeks ago, of course) swearing that she’d never forgive him if he died and left her there.

 

When he went to sleep that night, Charles felt a twinge of nervousness in his gut at the thought of actually going to war.

It gave him pause to think that perhaps he had subconsciously _wanted_ his father to to forbid him to go.

Maybe, Charles wanted to be able to say that he’d tried to do his part and so could not be faulted.

 

That night, he dreamt of marching and of water and of the things he felt that he knew he should not.

................

 

_Choking._

 

_Can’t move._

 

_Help._

 

Charles felt as though there were a tonne of bricks weighing him down as he regained consciousness.

It felt like he was underwater, deep down, but could see the lighted surface and was struggling towards it.

 

“ _Versuchen Sie nicht, nur noch sitzen. Sie sin sehr krank, mein Freund._ ”

 

The speaking voice belonged to a man and was gentle in tone, but spoke German, the only word of which Charles could make out being _Freund_. _Friend_.

Charles brushed the man’s mind tentatively, only curling the softest tendrils of his telepathy out towards the stranger.

He was weak, but not so much that he couldn’t make his presence in another’s mind go unnoticed and unfelt.

The other man’s mind was startling, brilliant and _different_ from the other minds Charles had encountered. Charles’ entire body seemed to relax; at least he was safe.

He was with someone who called him _friend_ , he had not been captured by Nazis.

Fighting to open his eyes and succeeding at last, Charles soon realized he was laid up in a bed inside what appeared to be a small cottage.

There was an oil-lamp burning, and a man—presumably, the one who had spoken—sitting in a chair beside the bed, looking worried.

Charles’ first thought was one of pure gratitude, wordless and all-encompassing.

His second thought only came because he was too weak and broken to tamp it down into its dark little corner.

_He’s beautiful._

Madness, that his perversion would be so dominant even close as he was to death. He’d have laughed if it wouldn’t have killed him to do it.

Charles brushed against the German’s mind, seeking to translate when next the man spoke.

“ _Sie sind Briten. Englisch, ja?_ ” the man spoke to Charles, pale eyes intent. “ _Sie haben keine Deutsch sprechen?”_

Ah. That much, at least, he knew—without having to peek.

When he finally attempted to speak, the sound Charles’ voice made was not unlike rusted machinery coming to life after years of neglect.

“ _Ja. Nein, nur ein wenig, tut mir leid._ ” He managed. It would be much easier if he could just project the words into the other man’s mind, but Charles didn’t dare.

He knew there were others like him, people with astounding, superhuman abilities.

He also knew that those others, along with Charles himself, often chose to keep those abilities a closely guarded secret for fear of persecution.

Charles hoped what little, halting German he could remember from lessons and from being in the military would suffice to converse with the man who had rescued him.

“ _Wie ist Ihr Name, Soldat?_ ”

Soldier.

The man knew he was a soldier and was asking for Charles’ name, as though it mattered.

Perhaps this man had such a good heart that he wished to make proper his prayers.

Throat dry and stinging, like a gravel-scraped knee, Charles answered him. “ _Ich heiße_ Francis.”

Charles gave his middle name without much thought—even in his fevered state, he knew it would be wiser _not_ to divulge his true identity yet, if at all.

The German’s face grew pensive in the flickering light, shadows playing on the sharp angle of his jaw, his cheekbones.

Charles could feel himself slipping back into dreams, his body too weak to stay conscious any longer.

Before everything went dark again, though, he heard the German’s voice drifting over him like a faraway cloud.

“ _Mein Name ist Max._ ” and “ _Schlaf gut kleiner Soldat Franz_.”

 

His salvation had a name, at least.

 

_Max._


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Erik wonders about the predicament he's gotten himself into; plus a glimpse into his painful past.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit more, from the other lead character's POV.

 

Erik Lehnsherr fretted by the boy’s side awhile longer before getting up to stretch his legs and tend the fire.

 _So big and blue, those eyes_. he thought.

They had been cloudy, milky like a dying animal’s eyes when Erik had found him on the beach.

The boy (for he was just that—a boy) had been wearing a filthy, damp uniform which indicated that he was a soldier for the English. He had lost his helmet, probably left behind wherever he had sustained those wounds which would turn even the most iron of stomachs.

Erik knew the kind thing, the humane thing, would be to kill him, and quickly. It would be an act of mercy, of compassion.

But when the boy’s eyes had fluttered open, hands grabbing at the grass and sand beneath him, Erik could not bring himself to do it.

 

Now, he turned the coin over and over in his palm using the tiniest bit of his powers, wondering what the hell he'd gotten himself mixed up in.

The boy had been deathly pale, an eerie green-gray under the heavy dirt and grime that covered most of his exposed skin.

Erik had managed, in the end, to carry the boy up to his cottage, to get him out of the soiled clothing and into Erik’s own bed.

 _When he wakes to find that he has been rescued by a_ German _—a_   _German_ mutant, _no less—what then?_ Erik thought pointedly, accusingly to himself as he cut away the filthy linen scraps that had been wound around the boy’s hands to stave off chilblains.

 _If,_ he replied to his own mind. _If he wakes at all_.  

The fire he had built in the fireplace quickly warmed the cottage to a near unbearable degree, but the boy was still cold to the touch.

Erik warmed water in a pot on his stove and washed the boy gently with a cloth as best he could.

it wasn’t perfect, but it would have to do.

The water in the pot had all but turned black once the worst of the filth was gone, and Erik had seen then just how dire the injuries truly were that this soldier had sustained.

One bullet hole had left the skin ragged and sick, through his right thigh, and some shrapnel had grazed his right shoulder.

The shoulder would be easy enough to take care of, but the leg...the leg held little optimism.

It was likely infected, judging by the smell and the color of the flesh around the bullet wound, and it would no doubt need amputation eventually.

 _If_ the boy lived.

Erik shook his head, swore softly. He was a fool to do this, he knew; to compromise his already shaky safety for a wounded enemy soldier.

He could easily remove the metal using his ability, but what then?

Would the boy be grateful enough to overlook the fact that his savior was a genetic anomaly? Or would he be scared, and angry, lashing out like people do when they fear what they do not know?

But whose enemy was the boy, really? Not _Erik’s_ enemy, that was true.

Just because he had been born German, did not mean he was a Nazi or a sympathizer. Erik _loathed_ the Nazi regime, and it set his blood boiling whenever he remembered Schmidt’s watery, pale eyes and smirking mouth.

Erik fantasized about killing Schmidt with his own war medals, driving the gilt edges deep into the man’s skull.

Once Erik had escaped the compound, seething and helpless at his mother’s murder, he had made his way to the tiny French village where he now lived, fled when the Nazis had begun to come for the men and women who were different.

Still...Erik felt, deep in his heart, that he was a coward.

He should be with the resistance, fighting in any way he could, helping to smuggle Jews and other targeted groups to safe, secure locations.

The boy had stirred then, derailing Erik’s dark, self-deprecating train of thought.

The lamplight caught the tags round the boy’s neck, one red and one green, embossed with letters and numbers. Erik hesitated before crossing the room, and then once more when he was at the boy’s side, finally lifting the tags so that he could make out the embossment.

The letters and abbreviations meant nothing to Erik, who spoke English well but didn’t know their codes.

All he could tell for certain was the boy’s age: nineteen. A child.

Anger bubbled up and burned hot inside Erik at this. There were children dying in the death camps, and children dying on the front.

This boy would likely never see the age of twenty. Erik felt his hands curl into fists against the covers piled on top of the soldier.

But then, the boy had opened his eyes, slowly and with great effort. Erik wanted to soothe him somehow, to use words to bring some semblance of peace to this boy so close to death.

Instead, Erik had asked him if he was British, though he’d already known the answer.

He followed that question with one inquiring as to the boy’s language capability.

The cottage felt so hot, stifling and musty and unbearably tense.

To his surprise, the boy seemed to understand German, at least rudimentarily.

He replied in more or less correct grammar that he only spoke a little of the language, and that he was sorry for it.

For the first time since he had brought the soldier to his home, Erik had become acutely aware of the fact that the boy was incredibly beautiful—or he would have been.

Perhaps he was, once.

When Erik asked after the boy’s name, he learned that the boy was called Francis.

 _Franz,_ he changed it to almost immediately in his mind. If the soldier did live, he would need to assume a false identity in order to even sustain the smallest hope of escaping back to his homeland.

Erik gave his own name in return, though only the alias he had been using since his flight from Germany.

Whether or not Franz heard it was another matter altogether, and Erik watched as the Englishman fell back into his deathlike slumber.

Sighing, Erik told himself that he should get up, go into the village and see about medicines.

 

He lingered at the bedside for another hour, though, watching Franz’s pale chest rise and fall in tiny increments; proof that death had not yet claimed him.

 

.....

 

The previous year, when the Nazis had begun to further extend their sinister reach across Europe, Erik had known in his gut that it was time to leave Germany.

But Edie, Erik’s mother was old and sick, and she couldn’t up and leave in the hurry that Erik had planned.

So, he stayed with her, because he loved his mother, and he needed to protect her because his father was gone.

When they came for the Jews, when they took Erik and took his mother to the camps, Erik _fought_.

He fought in any way he could, until, one day, someone took notice.

He was half-dragged all the way to a comfortable office, and thrown into a chair before a slim, smirking man with thinning hair and wire-rimmed spectacles.

The man was Klaus Schmidt, and he wanted to know about Erik’s powers.

Of course, Erik denied that he had any; he had been keeping them a secret for so long, from everyone but his mother, it required little more than instinct for the words of denial to leave his mouth.

“I thought you might say that,” Schmidt had replied smoothly, corners of his mouth curling ever-upwards. "Though I _had_ hoped you might be more reasonable."

He gestured to a guard, and not two minutes later, Edie Lehnsherr was being pushed into the room, a guard on either side of her, clutching her thin arms so tightly Erik feared the frail bones would snap.

Erik felt his anger bubbling up then, his heart hammering wildly. Schmidt ordered him to use his powers to move a coin across the desk.

Erik stared at him, hot tears of frustration welling in his eyes. Shook his head.

Schmidt nodded to one of the guards, and suddenly a gun was cocked, the barrel pressing into the soft, pale flesh of Erik’s mother’s neck.

Erik reached for his powers, could _feel_ the metal of the coin, but something in him froze.

Never would Erik forget those moments, each one seeming to last an eternity. Erik was a grown man, and he had manipulated metal since he was _twelve years old_.

A simple coin should have required the barest effort.

Erik reached, but the coin did not move.

Edie tried, in her final moments, to soothe her only son one last time.

_“Alles ist gut, Erik!”_

Schmidt counted to three, and the gun went off.

Erik didn’t remember much else, besides the fact that his powers chose to return to him a moment too late.

All the metal in Schmidt’s office, and down the hall, Erik took hold of. He crushed the skulls of the officers in their helmets, crumpled file cabinets and melted guns.

Then, Erik’s vision had gone white, and he’d lost consciousness.

The last thing he saw was Schmidt’s vile, twisting smirk and his mother’s frail, lifeless body on the floor.

. . .

When Erik had awoken, it was made clear that he was to be Schmidt’s little pet.

They experimented on him, forced him to stretch his powers to their limits and beyond.

He was tortured, subjected to every kind of horror the imagination could dream up.

Erik bided his time, fueling himself with the rage and the hate, all the while plotting his escape.

The chance came, finally, when a fire started somewhere on the compound.

Erik was left unattended, and he wasted no time in making his way out.

When he thought of the horrors that would befall the others whom he left behind, Erik tasted bile at the back of his throat, but he forced it down. He couldn’t let himself think of that—he needed to be selfish in his pain.

Erik would find Klaus Schmidt again, someday when Schmidt was old and lazy and had completely forgotten him.

Erik would find him, and make him pay for what he did.

The original escape plan had been to try for Switzerland, but he hadn’t enough money in his pocket for that. France seemed the next best bet, though the Nazis were moving to invade. There were still areas in the south where people could hide, live unassuming and quiet lives in the countryside.

Without fear or guilt, he killed any Nazi he came in contact with, robbed them of their money, their weapons.

He adopted a false name, _Max Eisenhardt_ , and lived in the shadows.

Erik had ended up in this little cottage near the sea, where he knew they were prepared for seaborne attacks, should it come to that. He was able to buy it for almost nothing, as the owners no longer wished to remain in France at all. They were making a bid for safety in England.

So, he lived.

He kept his ear to the ground, kept himself informed about the war and the Germans, but also attempted to make distance in his heart.

He still felt guilt for leaving, all those _children_ , all those _people_. _His_ people.

He was without family or country, without cause.

Who was he, if not a son of Germany?

 

When he had heard news of the evacuation, the thousands of British soldiers who were being rushed to safety after the carnage at Dunkirk, Erik had felt a grim sort of finality.

So it was to happen, then; the second world war was truly upon them.

It was springtime in France, and it was beautiful.

The fields were in bloom, and the bite of winter had all but gone from the air. It was the last spring many would ever see, Erik thought with an ache in his chest.

And then, somehow, two days ago a little lifeboat had washed up on the shores not a brisk walk from Erik’s home.

Erik could not say what it was that drove him in the direction of that beach on that day, only that he felt as though he was being pulled there by some invisible force.

The soldier to whom the boat belonged had somehow made his way out of the vessel and across most of the beach before finally falling, supine on the ground where the sand met the grass. Something was not right, Erik knew; this boy ought to have had medical attention and been shipped on the safest route to Dover, like the rest of the evacuees.

He had gone off-course, perhaps. He may have found the boat on his own, made his own attempt at escape, in which case he was a deserter.  

But was it truly fair to call him such a dirty word as that, one as wounded as this soldier? He'd likely had no idea what he was doing, getting into a boat at all.

Erik knew that it was unwise for him to keep a wounded British soldier in his home, even in 'Free France'; he knew this but he took the wretched boy home anyhow, put him to bed and dressed his wounds as best he could.

Seeing the young man in his bed, blankets piled high on top of his slight frame, Erik felt the war become all the more real to him.

There had been thousands of casualties reported in the news he’d heard of Dunkirk, Allied casualties.

How many deaths had this boy been witness to? Had he seen friends succumb to wounds on the beach?

And suddenly, Erik needed air.

It was too hot in the cottage, and his head was spinning to boot. His stomach felt queasy and knotted as he half-ran out the back door.

 

It was pleasant outside, temperate; Erik sucked in deep, greedy breaths as he gradually returned to himself.

He realized with no small amount of surprise that he was crying.

 

The tears that spilled unbidden from his eyes in that moment were the first he had shed since his mother had been killed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have quite a lot of this written out, ready to edit and post, but once I've posted all I've got, I will probably try to update once or twice a week. 
> 
> ^_^ thanks for reading!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charles and Max become better acquainted. 
> 
> Sometimes, all you need is to know you are not alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm hoping this all reads okay, I know it is a tad wordy. Don't hesitate to leave comments or criticisms (provided they be polite). I love feedback. 
> 
> ^_^

 

Max was redressing the wound on his shoulder while Charles half-laid, half-sat, propped up on several pillows.

The German was meticulous in his treatment, having cleaned the area with alcohol thoroughly ( _too thoroughly_ , Charles thought miserably—it had hurt something bloody _awful_ , and Charles had cried, much to his shame) and making sure to check beneath the bandages every hour or two.

Max kept Charles’ wounds clean, made sure Charles had eaten enough (a bowl of broth was held to his lips three times a day) and made idle conversation with him in German.

Charles responded when he could, but mostly it was enough, just to hear someone’s voice. Just to know that he was alive, and safe.

When Max had cleaned the gunshot wound in Charles’ thigh, though, the process had taken nearly two hours, and Charles had actually fainted from the pain.

Sharp, searing, _burning_ pain, like bright splotches of red behind his eyes.

Max had apologized softly but then set his jaw in determination before disinfecting the ragged skin and digging in with some sort of forceps to retrieve what was left of the bullet.

It was agonizing.

And then, it wasn’t.

Charles opened his eyes, peered down at the German and saw, much to his shock, that there were no forceps at all.

Max’s hand hovered just over the bullet hole, and the metal was—no, it couldn’t _possibly_ be—somehow liquidizing, coming out of the wound in fine strands which hovered around Max’s long fingers. Max muttered under his breath, words that Charles could not understand but knew somehow were meant to be words of comfort.

Too amazed to say anything, and not wishing to startle the German, Charles gritted his teeth and lay his head back on the pillow, tears and snot flowing freely down his cheeks to pool in the shells of his ears.

A few times he cried out, the pain was too great; Max did not fault him or belittle him— he merely kept on at his work, diligent and precise.

Somewhere around the one-hour mark, Charles felt himself slip into blackness, resurfacing when Max had made a small noise of triumph.

Between his thumb and forefinger, Max was holding was clasped a single little nub of iron, still slick with Charles’ blood. The worst, it seemed, was over.  

“Such a little thing to cause such great pain, _ja_?”

The sudden shift in language left Charles vaguely stunned, hearing the accented English words that Max had offered.

Max was looking at him, pale green eyes weary and sad, the slope of his brow marred with worry.

“I don’t know how much English you know,” Charles began, his voice breathless and still rough. “Oh, bugger it, who gives a damn? That was bloody _incredible_ , Max. I’ve never—are you a telekinetic?”

It was risky, but Charles was too excited at the discovery that his rescuer was also a mutant.

 _And such a brilliant power_ —Charles felt a little dizzy with admiration.

Max’s shoulders tensed, and his eyes turned steely and sharp. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

So he _did_ speak English after all, Charles mused.

“ _No_ , no, it’s—it’s quite alright, you have nothing to fear. You see, I’m _like_ you, Max.”

 _You have your tricks, and I have mine_ , Charles projected gently, hardly daring to breathe as he watched the German’s features go from suspicion to surprise and wide-eyed disbelief.

“How did you do that?”

_I’m a telepath, my friend. I can read people’s thoughts, feel what they feel._

“I promise I've not read yours, though, apart from the ones that slip through. I try to, er, be courteous of other people’s privacy.” Charles added sheepishly, aloud.

Max just stared at him, mouth slightly agape, but his shoulders relaxed a little, and he no longer looked like a cornered animal ready to fight.

After several moments, the German leaned back in his chair and caught Charles’ eye.

“I thought... I never met anyone else who was—” Max seemed to bite back the words, stopping himself.

 _You’re not alone, not anymore_. Charles sent the thought to the other man, along with the vague sensation of calmness.

He hoped he could convey with this that he meant Max no harm, and it seemed to have the intended effect.

Max let his eyes linger on Charles’ face half a moment longer before returning to his task of cleaning Charles’ thigh. When the wound was sterilized to the German’s satisfaction, he wrapped it, and then helped Charles to dress in a loose sweater and pair of pants which most likely belonged to Max himself.

Charles tried valiantly not to notice or dwell on how the fabric of the sweater smelt of fresh, clean air and something vaguely spicy, much like the sweater’s owner.

His head was swimming with the aftereffects of finding that Max was a mutant, that he could speak English, that he hadn’t balked when Charles had sent him thoughts.

Charles felt like he was floating, buoyed high enough by this unlikely discovery that he almost forgot the fact that he was a wounded British soldier separated from his unit in territory swarming with Germans.

 

He slept more peacefully that night, perhaps, than ever before in his life.

......

It had been two weeks since he’d awoken in the care of the German who was hiding in France, and Charles felt his strength returning a little more each day.

His sleep was fitful on many nights, though; flashbacks of gunfire and bombs and so much death.

When he’d remembered the brutality of the beach at Dunkirk--remembered how he’d seen Jim Fielding torn through by enemy fire, and how he’d watched Toby James die on the sand, choking on his own blood and crying for his mum--Charles had vomited.

He did not deserve to live over any of the other men, and yet he had.

Men, better men, waiting to be rescued and evacuated, wading out into the surf only to wash up moments later, stone-dead.

Charles had made it onto a his little dinghy, hadn’t he? He had somehow managed to push his battered, weak, starved and exhausted body out into the sea, to pull that same ragged body up into the boat.

Charles had not succumbed to his injuries; he had not starved to death or died of septicæmia, nor had he fallen victim to another attack. He had used his powers to remain unseen, and he had survived.

He had washed up on shores so far south, and Max had found him, nursed him.

He didn’t deserve it.

Tears came and did not slow, not until he was hiccuping and gasping for breath, and Max had brought a damp cloth and wiped his face and made him drink a cup of water.

Charles felt so very _young_ , but also terribly old all at once.

How could he ever go back to England, to his family’s mansion and all their foolish friends and society parties?

As Charles had sobbed, Max had covered him gently with the blankets and smoothed the hair back off of his forehead.

He saw pity in Max’s eyes, but more than that, Charles saw compassion. He’d cried himself to sleep that night, and the next night as well.

 

Max left sometimes during the day—Charles assumed he had some sort of job—but he always made sure to leave water and a bowl of broth, perhaps a hard roll on the little table next to the bed for Charles.

He’d left books, too, but they were all in French or German, and Charles found it made his head hurt just trying to read them. Instead, he would get up and take a few turns around the cottage, working the stiff muscles of his body so that they might one day be back to their natural state.  

He had realized, the first time he’d attempted to walk around, that he must be sleeping in Max’s own bed.

There was a pillow and blanket on the sofa near the fireplace, and Charles felt his cheeks burn, though he was all alone.

He’d taken the man’s _bed_ from him, for God’s sake.

Now, he intended to say something about it when Max returned home from the village— he just couldn’t quite figure out how.

All of the different phrasings he tried in his head seemed silly, each more mortifying than the last when Charles imagined actually using any of them in the face of the tall German.

Charles sat at the little table in the kitchen when Max finally came back, a puzzled sort of bemusement written on the his face at seeing Charles seated there.

“What are you doing up, Franz?” he asked, setting a thick loaf of bread down on the small counter.

Charles ignored the shiver of electricity that coursed up his spine at the Germanized version of his middle name. It should not have made his cheeks burn to hear it, and Charles bit his lip in consternation.

He was in complete denial of the fact that it wasn’t the name, it was the voice which spoke the name that left him wretched.

“You didn’t need to give up your bed on my account, Max. _Honestly_ ,” Charles finally snapped, a bit peevishly.

He hadn’t meant to sound so prim, and already he felt the flush creeping up his neck.

Max looked confused for a moment, and Charles’ heart sank a little, but then the German’s eyebrows raised and his face split nearly in two with a grin.

Charles felt faint at the sight of Max’s smile, all those large, straight teeth.

  Max laughed, the corners of his eyes crinkling. He seemed like he had forgotten _how_ to laugh, it sounded so foreign coming from his mouth.

“I find you more than half-dead on the beach—you, a _British soldier_ , and me a German refugee—and _you’re_ worried you’ve been a bad guest?” he asked, voice full of mirth.

Though he missed more than half of what was said, Charles knew when he was being teased.

“You’re—you’re taking the piss, I don’t _believe_ this. I fretted over how to bring it up to you all afternoon, I’ll have you know!” he spluttered, feeling himself redden all the way to his ears.

A different sort of look crossed over Max’s features, but lasted only several seconds.

It took Charles a moment to discern the nature of the look, but the intense wave of want he got from Max left him rather stunned; it was hunger which had so briefly colored the German’s expression, raw and unmistakable.

Max then insisted that Charles allow him to assist in helping him get back into bed. Charles was still too dumbfounded to protest, and so allowed himself to be shepherded like a sleepy child. Max tucked Charles under the blankets after a cursory peek under bandages at the healing wounds before turning abruptly and leaving the small bedroom.

When he returned, nearly a half hour later, he watched Charles eat soup and a thick slice of bread with a completely neutral countenance.

Charles wished fervently that he could read Max’s mind, but he dared not ask permission.

From what little he knew about the German, Charles was certain that he preferred his thoughts to remain private.

So, as it was, their means of communication were extremely limited even with the shared language, a fact which was beginning to frustrate Charles a great deal.

He didn’t want to be too chatty, as he had been told he could sometimes be, but he wanted to know _everything_ about Max.

Something inside him yearned to weave itself tightly around the other man’s mind, to explore every brightly-lit room and dark, damp corner of the German’s memories.

Charles wanted to know where he was, what was going on with the war; he wanted to know if he might go outside and breathe fresh air, but he struggled to find the words to ask. It was maddening.

 

 

Charles resolved to ask about it the next day, somehow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ha ha ha ha feeeeelings


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A bit of past, a bit of present. 
> 
> Sad boys only get sadder, I'm afraid.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow! Thank you all for the comments and such! I'm glad to be getting a positive response :D 
> 
> I'll keep posting more, you're all lovely. 
> 
>  
> 
> *TW: This chapter has a scene of non-con between Charles and an OMC. If you don't like to read that or you're triggered by that kind of stuff, avoid reading the section that begins with Charles musing about kissing boys and girls.*

 

The wound in Franz’s leg had seemed to get worse for a week or so before it began to, very slowly, improve.

It no longer leaked fluid of any kind, and the skin had turned an angry reddish color around the bullet entry, a marked improvement over the sickly green-black it had been.

Still, Erik was uneasy most of the time. It had been a month now that he’d had the Englishman living in his house in secret, and he felt certain that someday soon, the other shoe was going to drop.

It was difficult enough, living the way Erik did, just on his own. Now that he had another’s life to worry about ( _when did he start caring enough about the boy to worry about him?_ ) Erik had to be incredibly careful.

 

They’d begun to develop a kind of routine, though, and Erik found it alarmingly easy to read the soldier’s body language and react accordingly. They spoke, a little more each day, the conversations growing longer and covering more significant subjects.

Through this strange amalgamation of communicative methods, Erik learned that Franz was, indeed, nineteen years of age, that he’d enlisted a year ago, and that he was extremely cross to know that he was keeping Erik from his own bed.

(Erik did not mind the sofa, truly; it _was_ beginning to give him a crick in his neck, but that hardly mattered. He’d been much, much more uncomfortable than this.)

Erik told Franz little about himself, only things that were harmless for someone else to know: He was from Düsseldorf, he was not a Nazi-sympathizer, and he was twenty-five years old. He did not tell Franz about his reasons for fleeing his homeland, but  _did_ reveal, after considerable prodding from the soldier, his intense love for poetry and prose. And, chess.

(The way Franz’s eyes had lit up and the smile that bloomed on his face made Erik’s heart swell against his will.)

They had ended up, over several heated games of chess, discussing (or attempting to discuss) various works they each admired or loathed, a conversation so spirited and passionate that both men forgot, for a small, golden evening, that there was a brutal and bloody war being fought.

It was easy, too easy, to let the little English telepath become a part of his life, Erik thought with a stab of annoyance. He looked forward to returning to the cottage, found himself thinking about what the two of them could talk about.

He also worried about the soldier, fretted in his mind all day over the still-healing wounds he was doing his best to nurse.

 

One day in late June when his recovery was reaching new success, Franz had confronted Erik quite vehemently, with his wishes to go outside.

The color in the telepath’s cheeks had been high, a rosy flush well-suited to his ivory-pale skin; Erik found himself in danger of smiling during the middle portion of Franz’s animated onslaught. When the boy was finished, he was frowning, glaring at Erik with all the fierceness of a wet kitten, awaiting his reply.

Erik had tamped down the laughter welling in his chest, taken Franz gently by the arm, and led him out the back door of the cottage.

There were fields of tall grass and wildflowers, and the dirt road that forked and led down to the beach or into the village.

Erik glanced at the boy, watching the way he closed his eyes and breathed deeply the fresh summer air. Standing, Franz was nearly a head shorter than Erik himself, and he wondered bemusedly how the boy had managed to enlist despite this fact.

Together, Franz hanging onto Erik’s arm like it was an anchor, they managed a few circles around the outside of the cottage.

It was a fortunate thing that the cottage was a little ways from town, and that there would likely be no one driving or walking by at this time of day. Nobody to ask questions.

Franz’s French was, admittedly, much better than his German; however, Erik knew that Franz could not pass for either German or French, the way his strange, crisp native accent snuck its way into everything.

  “ _Thank you_ , Max . . . I think . . . I’m very tired. Shall we turn in?” Franz peered up at him with those unearthly eyes, more vivid and bright than the sky.

Erik’s stomach flipped at the words, though he knew Franz hadn’t meant them the way they sounded.

They did not share a bed, nor did they sleep beside one another. Forcing his heart to slow and his face to remain impassive, Erik nodded, offered a small smile which the boy returned tenfold, and together they made their way back indoors.

 

Erik slept little that night, telling himself that it was only because the sofa was growing uncomfortable after so long sleeping on it.

 

It was not because he kept seeing those blue, blue eyes or that too-red mouth whenever he tried to relax.

 

.......

 

When Erik was a boy, things had seemed simple enough.

You went to school, and to Temple; you obeyed your parents, you grew up to get a job, and married a nice Jewish girl and gave her babies.

When he got a bit older, though, Erik had realized that there must be something wrong with him.

The dreams which led to waking up with sticky pants and shame never involved curvaceous women or girls from his class the way his friends’ dreams did.

They would snicker and huddle together in a big group, sharing stories of their lewdest fantasies and dreams, talk about which girls in their year at school had big tits. Erik would try to join in, some of the time, but the words tasted like sawdust in his mouth, because he knew they were not true.

He didn’t _care_ if Liesl Albrecht’s jumper stretched over her chest, or if Greta Dürer was rumored to have taken boys into the field behind the school to experiment. Erik found himself drawn to harder features, sharp jaws and strong shoulders. He never dared tell anyone of these secret, sick desires.

The first time Erik ever masturbated, it was over a picture in a magazine of Errol Flynn. He’d felt hot and disgusted immediately after, guiltily soaping his hands in the sink of the bathroom he shared with his parents.

He prayed to God to take away his sin, to take away the urges put inside him by Satan, trembling at the foot of his bed and nearly in tears.

He had done it again, not two days later.

 

When he got older, he went on dates with girls, kissed a few.

Erik was ‘lucky’ enough to merit a moonlit walk with the prettiest girl in his age group, Ava Rosen. When she’d leaned in and pressed her perfect little cupid’s bow lips to his, though, it felt incredibly tedious to Erik. She smelt pleasant, and her mouth was soft and warm; it just simply did not _work_.

Erik knew that the other boys would be trying for a hand against Ava’s blouse, would be making an effort to conceal the tented fabric of their trousers. He had walked Ava home and pretended to be thrilled when he later related these events to his school friends. Erik knew all the right things to say, all the crass phrases and lewd hand gestures. He laughed along with the other boys, but inside he felt like crying. It was hard enough knowing he was different because of his strange abilities with metal. _Now I know for certain_ , he thought miserably. _I’m a freak, I came out wrong._

And this, to Erik, only 15 years old, felt like the end of the world.

He found he no longer could look his parents in the eye, too afraid that they might see a glimpse of the deviant and depraved thoughts that occupied his brain.

Erik wished that he was dead, countless times he prayed for it. But death did not come, and Erik found he had to learn to deal with himself.

If he was broken, if he was truly unfixable, then he would just have to cope as best he could.

 

When his father Jakob had died, Erik felt a bittersweet kind of relief that his father had never known the truth about his son.

Then, when Erik was 18, the NSDAP banned homosexuality. Magnus Hirschfeld’s _Institut für Sexualwissenschaft_ was attacked, the archives confiscated and burned publicly. This was devastating, just as Erik had finally begun to accept the way that he was.   There was no longer any hope, now that the Institute had been destroyed. Progress and tolerance had no place in Germany, not in the new Germany that was looming ever-nearer.

It was as though Erik’s most secret hopes and prayers were rising on smoke and ash, floating away with the charred scraps of the ruined volumes.

The homophile clubs were purged from Berlin, the organization of homosexual groups banned. Erik heard about homosexuals fleeing Germany, and he felt nauseous. Nobody knew of Erik’s affliction; he’d never dared tell. Never visited any of those forbidden clubs while he’d had the chance (and he wished sometimes that he had) or acted outwardly as anything other than the studious, reserved, normal young man he was believed to be.

He’d had sex with a few women, but it never seemed to go very well. He preferred to pleasure them digitally or orally so as not to reveal the uninterested state in which his genitals remained. Erik knew, after the first of these unenjoyable encounters, that he could never love a woman _that way_.

He also knew that he would never be able to have what he wanted.

There would be no sweet burn of another man’s stubble against his cheek, no rough, hard kisses or powerful embraces. He would never feel the calloused hands of a lover bring him over the edge.

 

Erik knew this, knew it with every fibre of his being, and then it didn’t _matter_ anymore because he was in the compound, in Schmidt’s office watching his mother’s black blood pooling out from her lifeless body, and then he was running away to France, and the war was going to be the end of everything anyhow.

 

.........

 

Kissing boys and kissing girls were as different as chocolate and vanilla, Charles had decided to himself.

 

(Once, Charles’d kissed Raven when they were thirteen, just to see what it was like. They agreed that they oughtn’t do it again, wrinkling their noses in disgust.)

He was seventeen years old, and had kissed plenty of both; he figured he was something of an expert.

The girls growing up had liked Charles because he was handsome, but he was soft like they were, and he had money and privilege and he flirted with anything in a skirt.

The boys at school had liked Charles because he was uncannily pretty, with an English rose-complexion, large blue eyes, and small stature that made him less of a threat.

They would come to him during free time, approach him in the far-off corner of the library which he spent his spare hours in, and the look in their eyes told Charles everything.

Some of the boys were only using him because they missed girls, and there weren’t any girls for miles. Others pretended that their reasons were the same.

Some . . . some were like Charles, and _wanted_ it as purely and openly as a spring day.

Charles could see, could hear all of the thoughts of the boys who came to him; they couldn’t hide anything from him, little did they know.

They would mess around in spare dormitory compartments, in cupboards and empty classrooms on occasion; Charles was all too eager to have his mouth assaulted and his cock pulled.

(Of course, more often than not, it ended up with Charles on his knees with the other party’s hands fisted tightly in his hair, until it was finished and the other boy fled with red face and hastily re-tucked shirttails.)

Charles felt a terrible sort of embarrassment about the fact that to him, it wasn’t just messing about at school like boys do; he wanted to love, to be loved by a man. He wanted to _marry_ a man one day, not just experiment with boys at school.

Obviously, he knew it was wrong.

If he thought too long and too hard about it, it made him sick and filled him with compunction.

(He already knew that his father suspected, but Sharon—Sharon would be likely to have him hung in the square.)

 

There were other boys at Cambridge who made it known that they were homosexuals ( _Bloody poofters_ , Charles’ mind supplied in his mother’s voice) by wearing tight clothing and sometimes rouge on their cheeks and affecting effeminate mannerisms.

(Charles was not one of these; he was a bit of a dandy, he’d admit, but one could hardly help the way one looked.

His soft hair and soft skin were not something to be worn in advertisement for his more clandestine proclivities.)

But now, he was seventeen, and away at university.

The game was the same, the stakes much higher; there were plenty of male students who wanted a quick rub, and weren’t at all picky as to whom it was doing the rubbing.

Charles fell in with a fast crowd; intellectuals--all from backgrounds as pedigreed and moneyed as Charles’ own--who had a taste for drink and debauchery as well as academic success.

One of the boys he’d befriended, Richard Collins, was tall and strong, on the rugby team as well as in the philosophy club. Charles had tried so _very_ hard not to want, but couldn’t seem to tamp it all the way down.

He’d catch himself daydreaming about Richard’s muscular shoulders or the way Richard grinned, all boyish and handsomely smug when he made a quick witted remark. Charles knew he was filthy and vile for thinking so, but he wished, several times, that he was on the rugby team purely because he’d be able to glimpse Richard’s naked skin.

 

It all came to a head that spring of his first year at university, his mad, impossible crush.

There was a party somewhere, and lots of drink, and _some_ how Richard had persuaded Charles to come away from the others and go with him upstairs to a darkened room.

There, he’d pushed Charles against the wall and kissed him, hard enough to bruise. Charles was quite drunk and very confused, but somewhere in the hazy stupor that his mind had become he registered that this was far from a good thing.

Richard had hissed, low and sharp in Charles’ ear as he unbuttoned his trousers, that he’d seen the way Charles stared at him, so _obviously_ longing for this moment.

The words on paper might seem romantic and erotic, but in reality they were spoken harshly, accusingly.

All of a sudden, Charles had his cheek mashed against a cold wall, pants round his ankles and Richard a hot, stifling weight just behind him. On top of him.

He’d wanted to stop it, make it all go away, but part of him felt it was deserved.

He could freeze Richard with his telepathy, even shut down his nervous system completely; but, Charles did nothing.

It was what he’d wanted, more or less, wasn’t it?

Charles could hear as Richard spat into his palm, knew what was coming.

The knowing did not make the pain any less, though; it was white-hot and searing, he felt he would surely split in two.

He tried in vain to drown out Richard’s crass, foul thoughts, which were shoving their way into Charles’ mind just as he shoved his prick into Charles.

Richard lasted a mercifully short span of time before filling Charles with the heated, sticky indignity of his seed.

“There, now you’ve got what you wanted.” Richard had laughed, a cruel, mirthless laugh. “You tell anyone, I’ll tell them you forced me. Bloody pervert.”

And then he’d left a mortified Charles there, pants and knickers still down, slimy trail of cooling semen slowly running down his leg.

In a daze, he’d cleaned himself up as well as could be done, dressed again and left the party without a word to anyone.

 

The walk back to his dormitory seemed to be someone else inside his body, Charles looking on from above.

He’d crawled into bed that night and sobbed, body sore in places he’d not thought possible and soul sick with humiliation. Still drunk, head pounding, he’d cried until there was nothing left and he’d fallen asleep.

 

The next day came, and there was an enormous purpling bruise on the side of Charles’ face where it had been pushed against the wall.

He felt queasy looking at it, poking experimentally with a finger and then recoiling when it hurt.

He could barely walk, he was in so much pain; Charles was grateful that it was Sunday and he had time to sleep it off.

(When he went, slightly limping, to class come Monday, everyone ribbed him over the bruise; Richard had told them all that Charles had been the loser in a fight at the party. Charles laughed along with them and pretended that wasn’t so painfully close to the truth.)

After that, Charles was more careful, who he looked at or fantasized about. He kept his features neutral at all times, at all costs.

He began to date girls, _lots_ of girls. Casually, and usually only once or twice with the same one, but it helped.

 

It was all prestidigitation, Charles thought; dazzle them with smoke and mirrors so they don’t see you stuffing the rabbit in your hat, the scarves into your pocket, the white dove into your jacket.

 

...................

 

“How come you haven’t got a wife?” Charles queried while he and Max sat at the table. “Er—that is—I’m sorry, I’m being dreadfully rude.”

He’d made a mess of the delivery, but Charles wasn’t prepared for the German’s instantaneous change in demeanor. All traces of the pleasant mood he’d been in up til that moment had vanished. The room suddenly felt very tense.

“No.” he replied tersely “I live alone.”

Charles was tripping all over himself then, trying to somehow rectify the mess he’d unwittingly just made. He apologized, stammering out as many ‘ _terribly sorry_ ’s’ as he sent to Max via his telepathy.

Max sat there staring, shoulders losing some of the tension that had snapped into them at Charles’ inquiry, an attractive flush warming his features.

He looked—Charles _so_ longed to peek into Max’s mind—almost embarrassed. Like he’d been caught.

“ _Alles ist gut_ , Franz. I’m sorry for. . .” The German’s sentence trailed off, his voice slightly unsure, though still smooth and gentling.

Charles relaxed in his seat, relieved, though his cheeks still burned hot with embarrassment.

“I’m not sure exactly what you said, but I gather that you’ve forgiven me for being rude. I—”

“—It is . . . all right. Don’t worry yourself, _kleine_ Franz.” Max’s English was virtually perfect, besides his accent; still, sometimes he preferred to add little post-scripts in German, a fact which Charles found both incredibly endearing as well as wholly irritating.

“Don’t call me _kleine,_ I know what it means.” Charles huffed indignantly. “As if I’m a child, _honestly_.”

Max grinned then, before pushing away from the table to stand. He motioned for Charles to do the same, taking the smaller man’s arm to help him to his feet.

They were standing very close now, Max’s hands gripping lightly Charles’ upper arms to steady him on his feet, and the air in the room felt charged.

“See?” Max smirked down at Francis, indicating the admittedly substantial disparity between their heights. “ _Kleine_. Scarcely taller than my thumb, I’d wager.”

Charles noticed that his own fingers were curled lightly in the material of Max’s shirt, to steady himself (or at least, that was how he rationalized it) and he could smell the other man’s aftershave. Max’s pale eyes had that look in them again, fondness tempered with something harder, something with teeth.

The low light in the kitchen made Max’s gingery-copper hair look darker, more auburn.

Charles felt lightheaded, like he might float away.

His powers reached out with wispy, desirous tendrils and hovered just at the edges of Max’s mind. He caught flashes of things, half-hidden images and unspoken words, mostly in German but some in English. He could feel Max’s mind reaching back towards him of its own accord.

Then, the moment ended abruptly, both men blinking as though the hypnotist had snapped his fingers and broken the spell.

Max busied himself with the dishes from their supper, and Charles excused himself to the lavatory.

 

He most certainly did not notice that Max refused to look him in the eye when he did his nightly check under Charles’ bandages.

 

.....

 

_Screaming._

Erik awoke to the sound of someone shouting, clearly in no small amount of distress. He blinked in the darkness, trying to shake the grogginess of sleep and realizing that the person in peril was just in the next room.

_Franz._

Erik all but leapt up off the couch, fumbling for a packet of matches to light the lamp in the bedroom, rushing in to see what was the matter.

The room had the stink of slightly acrid sweat, fear; Franz was whimpering and clutching the covers as though they might be ripped away.

Erik lit the lamp and saw then that Franz’s hair was soaked, and his forehead was beaded with perspiration as well. He gently placed his hand on Franz’s arm, attempting to soothe the fit but managing to snap the boy out of it entirely.

Franz's eyes shot open and he sat bolt upright in the bed, frantically looking around the room.

“ _Alles ist gut_ , Franz. I am here.”

Somehow, repeating his mother’s last words to him felt more of a soothing balm than salt in a wound.

Erik wondered, not for the first time, what was happening to him.

Erik stroked Franz’s forearm with his thumb, the delicate, freckled skin dusted with red-gold hairs. The boy’s whole body seemed to go limp, then, shoulders slumping and breathing evening out. Relief was written all over his exhausted, flushed face.

“I was only dreaming,” Franz said weakly, and Erik understood the words.

He wished he could ask Franz in English what the dream had been about, what had terrified him so, but he suspected he already knew; the soldier was having flashbacks to the terrible battle at Dunkirk. Instead of trying to speak, though, Erik helped Franz to lie back down onto the pillows.

Erik stroked the damp hair away from Franz’s face, whispered soft placations in German to him.  

He allowed himself this one indulgence because, he told himself, the boy needed soothing and Erik was the only one who could provide it.

Soon enough, Franz’s eyes had fully closed and his breathing had become slow and deep.

Erik fought with himself, wanting to trace the angle of Franz’s stubbled jaw with his fingertips, to run them gently over the bump in the bridge of Franz’s nose. Instead, he snuffed out the lamp and carefully moved to extricate himself from the chair so he could go back to the sofa.

A smaller hand, rough with calluses but still inexplicably soft, caught Erik’s arm where it was left exposed by his sleeve.

“Stay, _bitte?_ ” Franz’s weak voice, thick with sleep and muffled by covers. “Please, Max?”

If he still believed in God, Erik would have thought he was being tested by Him. Thinking of the broken young man who had been consumed by terror, reliving his worst day in his nightmares, Erik could not find it in himself to consider what _God_ would wish of him.

He sighed, climbed into the bed with the boy, who immediately curled up against Erik’s side and clung to him like a limpet.

Erik was only mildly surprised to feel the boy’s powers reaching for his mind, outstretched like the arms of a child wanting its mother.

With a weighted sigh, Erik allowed the dreamy waves of Franz’s telepathy curl tenderly around his consciousness.

It felt. . . strange. Yet somehow, also, it felt safe.

 

And if Erik wound an arm around Franz protectively, pulling him close, well; he was _tired_ and God did not exist and it was _hard_ to deny oneself everything.

..........

Charles woke the next day to an empty bed, but the sheets next to him still held the heat from Max’s body.

 

 _It had been real_ , he thought with a touch of wistfulness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! ^_^


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charles and Erik walk a fine line. 
> 
> Lines are meant to be crossed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, I am SO sorry that I haven't posted on this in awhile. I've had a lot going on, but now I've got a bizarre three days off until Thursday, so my posts should be more regular from now on. Many apologies. 
> 
>  
> 
> Please accept this humble update. 
> 
>  
> 
> Enjoy ^_^

Things were getting worse, according to the reports.

Max translated to the best of his ability, relaying information about the Allied troops and what cities were bombed out.

It was getting hard to find unbiased news in France, since southern France was really only in control of itself nominally, and Charles wondered how long he would be allowed to stay in the sort of comfortable limbo with Max.

They weren’t in the thick of war, exactly, and Charles was growing accustomed to living in the little cottage with its handsome owner.

He knew he ought to be finding a way back to England, or at least back to an army camp by now; it had been over six months.

Italy had declared war on France, but nobody was as worried about Italy as they were about the Germans. They’d signed an armistice with both.

It seemed almost idyllic to Charles, an oasis in wartime, lovely and dreamlike to be in the provincial cottage day in and day out, eating country bread and working on his understanding of the German language.

Then December came, and with it, news of the Americans’ neutrality coming to an end.

On December 7th, a naval base called Pearl Harbor located on Hawaii was bombed by the Japanese, and the Americans became officially involved, declaring war on Japan.

Charles still woke in fevered sweats from nightmares where he was back in the line of fire; Max had stopped sleeping on the sofa altogether in favor of being close at hand in case Charles needed to be snapped out of a dream. Sometimes Charles’ dreams bled into Max’s mind, which made him stammer out shameful apologies that the German would never let him finish.

Charles pretended valiantly that the proximity alone to the German did not create a feeling of peace so steady and calm in him, that it was not the only time Charles felt safe, being held in the other man’s arms.

Max never stayed in bed, always up with the dawn; if Charles was terribly honest with himself, he would have desperately liked for the German to be there when he awoke.

The strange question of Max’s sexual leanings and relationship history remained largely unanswered, for the man never spoke of any women at all.

He didn’t have a sweetheart in the village (as far as Charles knew) and he _certainly_ had never been married.

 _Don’t hope_ , scolded Charles’ mind. _Don’t wish for something that is impossible_. But still, Charles wished.

He wanted to curl around every corner in Max’s mind. He wanted to know  _everything_ about Max. 

 

He asked Max if he might shave one morning, as the patchy beard he was now sporting itched something terrible and made him feel very unlike himself.

Max had smiled blithely and shown him where the razors and cream were kept.

When Charles had stood in front of the dirty mirror for several moments, Max had offered in a painfully unsure voice if Charles might let him do it. With his ability.

Charles felt his ears go red, cheeks tingling as he looked away and then back at Max, to whom he merely nodded shyly. He wanted to run _away_ , back into the bedroom, _anywhere_ ; the pull of desire was too great.

Instead, he found himself looking at a watermark on the peeling paint of the wall opposite him while Max used the gentlest, most precise strokes, maneuvering the straight-razor over Charles’ rather sensitive skin with a deft, graceful ease.

It was _intoxicating_ , feeling Max’s entire self focused so solely on Charles; But as usual, the German was the one to shatter the delicate glass web of the moment, clearing his throat and remarking in a wholly casual tone that now Charles looked like a boy of twelve.

Charles fell into the familiar role of the incensed butt of Max’s teasing, scowling and grumbling, all the while trying to quash the fluttering in his stomach which refused to cease.

 

...................

 

Erik was unsettled by what he heard in the village of late; the Germans were growing stronger, the Axis powers increasing. England had suffered air raids and bombings, and there was only more on the horizon.

There was no way to lie to himself now, no way to hum and plug his ears with his fingers and scrunch his eyes shut to block out the truth of it; Erik would have to find a way to get Franz back to England. Erik himself would be safe, or safe enough, here in France. He could not risk the life of the young man whom he had saved only to become deeply attached to. He could not put Franz in the line of fire again.

Franz needed to go _home_ , as much as it stung like vinegar in a cut for Erik to admit.

He began to work on a plan.

 _Somehow_ , he would send the boy soldier back where he belonged.

Erik started to do what he supposed Germans were quite famous for in current times; he began crafting a meticulous strategy.

Only, this strategy’s purpose would be to deliver Franz whole, unharmed, alive into the arms of the British.

Erik had failed the one person he'd loved more than anything in the world.

This. . . _whatever_ it was he felt for the boy, it meant Erik could not fail. He needed to keep Franz safe. 

 

So help him, he _would_.

........ 

 

“ _Scheiße_ ,” Erik hissed quietly.

He wanted to rip out the page he’d just written on, to throw it into the fire with the kindling. He couldn’t, though; paper was hard to come by and Erik only had a few blank books.

But Franz’s German was coming along in leaps and bounds. Erik wondered if the boy's telepathy only served as an advantage in this endeavor.

He had noticed Erik’s scribbling and begun to inquire incessantly as to the nature of the writing. (Erik had to suppress a smile, remembering the way Franz tried to slyly work his curiosity into their conversations as though he wasn’t dying to know.) But were Franz to read or hear the words, he would _know_.

He would know without a doubt that Erik was hopelessly besotted, near-obsessed with the young soldier. And _then_ where would he be?

Sighing miserably, Erik shut the book and put it and his pencils back in the drawer of his desk. Franz was dozing in the bedroom after a bath Erik had nearly had to force him into, and now Erik found he could not resist peeking in to check on the younger man.

Through the open door, Erik saw that Franz was on his side, arms clutching a pillow tightly to his chest as one would hold a person.

His brow was for once untroubled, and the only thing his face held was the quiet peace of sleep.

In that moment, Erik was overcome by a wave of fondness, followed immediately by a surge of bitterness and fear.

The war was raging on, the Jews still being systematically mass-murdered, and Erik was busy fretting over something that would never be.

He had forgotten how badly it _hurt_ , the wanting; he wondered helplessly if he had ever felt it this intensely, and knew at the same time that he had not.

How could he have? He’d never grown close enough with anyone.

Now he was sitting in the chair beside the bed, wanting to reach out and brush the fine brown hairs off of Franz’s smooth forehead the way he’d done when the boy was near death all those months ago.

 _Stop_ , he warned himself, digging fingernails into the meat of his palm. It was not wise, giving in to his desires, even ones so small as this.

But even so, the need to touch Franz was boiling Max’s blood and making his breathing quicken.

“Max? Is that you?” Franz asked meekly, eyes blinking suddenly open like a drowsy baby animal.

Erik wanted to bolt, to extricate himself from the situation before he lost all of his rapidly receding control, but he did not.

Franz made a pitiful little sound, accompanied by a gesture which Erik took to mean that the boy wanted him to climb into bed as well.

( _He is spoilt_ , Erik thought wryly. They _both_ had been spoilt, letting this go on for as long as it had.)

Knowing he was damned whether he did or not, Erik shut the squeaky wheel of his conscience off with no second thought.

His body fit perfectly against Franz’s; the younger man nestled back into the heat of Erik’s embrace with a pleased little noise.

 _How torturous_ , Erik thought with a mental groan, _to lie beside the thing you most crave. This must be my punishment_.

He drifted into sleep with the smell of soap and Franz’s hair just under his nose.

  ...............  

It was too much. It was all _too_ _much_ , and Charles could no longer stand it.

He felt constantly on edge, all jumbled up inside like he’d been violently shaken. It was awful enough that he could not go back and fight in the war alongside his countrymen, worse still that he was almost too deeply traumatized to even want to; the _worst_ thing, though, the most _dreadful_ thing was having to live in proximity to constant temptation.

 _Max is unbearably handsome_ , Charles moaned during one of his many, tortured inner- monologues on the subject.

The German was lean, yet made solidly of hard muscle; _rangy_ , one would say to look at him. Charles was humiliatingly infatuated with the older man, not even bothering to hide it well any longer, looking his fill whenever he could. The square cut of Max’s jaw, the curve of his rare smile, the faint freckles which covered his skin; Charles had never _wanted_ someone so badly.

It set his teeth on edge, made him nervous.

He had not forgotten what had happened the last time he let himself become enamored of someone.

Sometimes, he thought he caught glimpses of Max reciprocating his passion, but the older man could make his face _and_ his mind unreadable at the drop of a hat, and Charles still dared not push where his telepathy could have easily discerned.

The day he’d shaved completely, Charles _knew_ that there was something there. A little spark, harmless enough when contained.

A little spark and a dry field, however, could end in a brushfire as far as the eye could see. A house burning down to nothing but ash and soot.

Charles knew that Max watched him, carefully and warily, as though he might grow fangs or suddenly drop dead of his nearly-healed wounds.

He fantasized constantly about confessing his secret yearning, about throwing himself into the German’s arms and kissing him.

Things only got worse after Max had accidentally seen him dressing. He’d been wearing not a stitch, not even the thin pair of shorts Max had loaned him which left little to the imagination as it was.

Neither of them had moved for what seemed like ages. Charles felt sure he would burn up on the spot, so hot was his face under Max’s piercing gaze.

The tiny spark of desire that Charles felt Max give off was like a sharp jolt to Charles, like an electric shock that startled him.

Then, Max had stammered— _stammered_!—out an apology and fled, closing the door with a swift click, leaving Charles blinking dumbly alone in the bedroom.

It was cold, mid-December, so he had hustled to put his clothes on, wishing all the while that he had more courage. When he finally emerged from behind the closed door, Max had already gone to the village.

Sighing, Charles set about tidying the cottage. It was all he could do to keep his mind busy and away from the steadily expanding corner which belonged only to Max.

...........

He couldn’t get the image out of his head, and it was driving him _mad_.

Snow was falling gently, and the walk back from town was long enough that Erik had already played and replayed the events of that morning over and over and over again in his head.

The boy had been naked in front of Erik, and it was _nothing_ like how it was when he was lying in bed nearly dead from exhaustion, exposure, and infection.

Now, Franz had a softness to him, curves and dips of muscle aided by the addition of better meals than he’d had the entire time he was on the front.

Franz was so _pale_ , Erik recalled the mental image with no small amount of guilt; the boy looked like a painting, like some creature unsuited to this dull mortal life.

Erik also remembered, lust twisting in his gut, the way Franz had turned utterly scarlet, flushing prettily across his chest as well as his face. By the time Erik arrived back at the cottage, he was mumbling something about needing to change out of damp clothes and pushing past Franz to shut himself in the bedroom that was no longer only his.

Stripping out of his coat and gloves, and then his boots and sweater, Erik felt the painful throb of desire as he had surely never felt it. He laid back on the bed, fumbling to push down his trousers and undershorts and take himself in hand. Erik hissed softly at the contact; it had been a long time since he had touched himself this way. He thought about it often, but the temptation had never been great enough to risk it. Today, it was. He pushed aside the fear of Franz somehow _knowing_ , of the thoughts projecting loud enough that the boy would  _hear_.

Stroking himself, Erik bit into the flesh of his bottom lip hard enough to draw blood.

He pumped himself faster, thinking of the soft swell of Franz’s bare bottom, the obscene red of his mouth.

The whole thing was over in a few frenzied minutes, leaving Erik breathless and limp with his softening prick in his hand, sticky whiteness cooling on his belly. He wiped himself clean with a sock, face burning with shame.

 

At supper later, Erik was too preoccupied with his own guilt to notice the new way that Franz’s eyes flickered up from his plate to land hesitantly on Erik’s face. He missed the way Franz said with his eyes everything they didn’t dare speak aloud.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will be some real feely stuff.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charles and Erik become Charles *and* Erik, for a moment, at least.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am SO sorry it's taken me this long to post. I've had a lot going on with my job and roller derby and family weddings and such, but I'm back and humbly kneeling before you with this pithy offering...

“I’ve made contact with someone who is working to move people safely to Britain,” Max said one evening, over their usual game of chess.

Charles didn’t know what to say. He’d felt the anxiety coming off Max in waves since he’d come home, but hadn’t wanted to pry.

It seemed he hadn’t needed to, after all.

“How do you know you can trust them?” Charles asked, pretending to be very engrossed in strategy, focusing his eyes on one of Max’s knights.

“They’re Americans," Max replied. "The woman I have been in contact with works closely with a special unit assigned with wiping out HYDRA bases.”

Charles knew of HYDRA, the Nazi science division with the sinister insignia and dark lurking intentions. He’d met a few HYDRA officers, and what he’d seen in their minds had made his skin crawl.

“What about you?” Charles asked, knowing he sounded petulant and not caring. “What will _you_ do?”

Max exhaled sharply through his nose. “What _I_ do is none of your concern, Franz. I can fend for myself.”

“You think I’m a silly child, don’t you?” Charles felt irritation and fear giving way to anger, and he reveled in it. “I watched men die, Max. I _felt_ them die. I saw a field of dead schoolchildren—”

“—I’m trying to keep you _safe_ , you insufferable brat. You—your leg could still become infected again, you could be discovered by the Gestapo, and then what?”

“I could kill a man with my mind, Max.” Charles spoke quietly, hands shaking with fury. “I have killed men. Perhaps I have not suffered enough, though, to earn your respect, is that it? Am I still just some spoiled English idiot who—”

“ _Enough!_ ” Roared Max, the sound ringing out in the small space and echoing through Charles’ mind as well. “You know nothing of the horrors that lie in wait of people like—like us, Franz. There are evil men, _humans_ , who would seek to harness your powers and use you up until there was nothing left. I can’t—

 _—risk you_ , Max’s mind finished, his voice breaking too much to speak.

Charles’ hand came up to cover his mouth; he feared if he tried to talk, he might do something awful like cry. He reached out to Max with his mind.

_Come with me, Max. Don’t make me have to worry about you, please._

Max’s face crumpled into an expression of misery.

“I can’t do that.” he said, sounding rough and raw as Charles felt.

“But,” Charles dug his fingernails into his palms and willed himself not to cry.

“—It is not safe for you here, Franz. You must return to your home.”

Charles tried to form the words to reply, some valid rebuttal to Max’s statement, but he found he could not. He wanted to scream with frustration. Charles faltered, thinking of how unsafe it was to remain in France with Max, how his being there put both their lives in unnecessary danger. More danger.

Max’s face was back to being impassive at first glance, a cool mask of careful neutrality, but his eyes— there was something else entirely in those eyes.

“When do we leave, then?” Charles asked quietly, feeling like the world was shifting again beneath his feet, giving him no time to prepare for the change in balance. Max stared at the chessboard, though neither of them had made a move in a long time.

“We rendezvous with the contact tomorrow night, Franz.”

Charles closed his eyes, let go the shaky breath he’d been holding.   

“Then you must allow me this one lapse in judgment, my friend.” Charles’ voice trembled, and his hands shook so violently that he balled them into tight fists at his sides.

He pushed away from the table and stood, coming round to the other side so he was insinuated fully into Max’s space. The German stared up at him with an unreadable look in his eyes. Charles felt like his whole body was on fire. There were nerves, and there was fear; they almost stopped him, _almost_.

In the end though, Charles’ need won out. Temptation won out.

The knowledge that this would be his only chance, that he would likely never see Max again drove Charles to brace himself and lean in to press his lips firmly against the older man’s with everything he had.

At first there was nothing, no movement, no response, and Charles started to pull away, shame creeping up his neck. Then, Max groaned into Charles’ mouth and grabbed him by the fabric of his shirt, yanking hard so he lost his balance and ended up straddling the older man’s lap on the small kitchen chair.

This new passion felt like the world opening up, like everything was illuminated and Charles could see, finally _see_.

Max’s mind reached out to Charles’, and the rush was like nothing Charles had ever known.

The German kissed him hungrily, like he was dying for it, the slide of their mouths and clash of their teeth. He cupped Charles’ face with his large, graceful hands, all the better to ravage Charles’ willing mouth.

“I did not hope, Franz—”

 _Charles_ , he projected, breathless even in his mind’s voice. _My name is Charles_.

“Max,” Charles panted against the older man’s lips.

“My—not Max,” came the reply, “ _Erik._ It’s Erik.”

And _oh,_ how right it felt to hear the German’s true name.

Charles shut him up with another kiss, reveling in the fact that he was free to claim the the older man’s mouth as he pleased. He made short work of the buttons on Max— _Erik_ ’s shirt, stopping to marvel at his body once the offending article of clothing had been removed and relegated to a heap on the floor. Erik _was_ rangy, Charles thought again, like a lean and powerful animal.

Erik practically tore Charles’ own shirt off of his body, throwing it on top of Erik’s discarded shirt all while trailing hot, wet kisses down the sensitive skin of Charles’ bare neck and collarbone.

“ _Schön,_ ” Erik breathed, voice both thick and reverent at once. “ _Schön bist du_ , Charles.”

Charles whimpered, leaning into the German’s touch, feeding off his words. It was all so much to take in, but _good_ in all of its overwhelming abundance. His blood was singing with the dizzy high of this new thing between them.

“You hypnotize me, _l_ _iebling_.” Erik whispered, voice gone ragged.

Charles could feel Erik’s hard length pressing against his own erection through the layers of their trousers, and he groaned when the German bucked his hips up to create even more friction.

 _Take me to bed_ , Charles thought, holding eye contact with Erik, though he knew his face was flushing something awful.

 _I might never let you leave, if you keep talking like that_ , came Erik’s projected reply.

Charles wished, fleetingly, that that were true.

He sent Erik an image of the two of them, tangled up in each other, golden midday sun streaming through an open window, Charles’ back arching and Erik’s hips thrusting as they made love.

Erik ravaged his mouth again, and then got up from the chair with Charles’ legs and arms wrapped around him, walking towards the bedroom. He used his powers to turn the knob, and the moment they were over the threshold, he laid Charles out on the mattress and fit himself between the open V of Charles’ legs.

Charles received a picture, a thought from Erik; it was to do with how many nights they’d spent together in this bed already.

From the memory, Charles could feel how badly Erik had _wanted_ him, wanted this. Now, the nature of their relationship, and so too the nature of the bed, had greatly changed.

Charles melted at the way Erik touched him as though he was precious, holy. Forcing his eyes up to meet the German’s intense gaze, Charles gave voice to the terrifying realization dawning in his mind.

“I—I love you,” he nearly gasped, eyes wide as saucers.

No sooner had the words been spoken, Erik was crushing their mouths together and almost sobbing into the kiss. They moved together, touching and discovering and sweating, neither one sure how it all was supposed to work. Neither man had ever had a lover, not a true lover; not someone who made the world light up and stop turning.

Erik mouthed words into Charles’ skin as they rocked their bodies together, over and over he spoke the words like a prayer, a promise.

 _Ich liebe dich_. Erik thought, as he spilled his release across Charles’ stomach.

 

Charles knew it with awful, stunning clarity, knew that it was true. It terrified him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next part will pick up several years later, and in the good old U.S. of A. 
> 
> Everything will be terrible and everything will hurt.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The war is over; things have changed. 
> 
> Charles is thrown off his axis by Erik once again, this time, in America.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, I'm horrid and I should be punished. I have let this one hang for far too long. As penance, I'll be going over the existing chapters with a fine-toothed comb, editing here and there, as well as posting this mega-update. 
> 
> Forgive me (-_-;;;;

_Summer, 1948 Westchester County, NY._

 

“Are you certain you don’t want to meet her, Charles? She’s quite lovely, and I’m sure you’d—”

Charles cut his exhausting mother off tersely “Leave it, Mother.”

It all seemed so trivial, life as he had known it before, thought Charles as he excused himself to his room. His mother was back to pushing society girls at him, as though nothing had happened. As though there were not fields and pits of dead soldiers, dead Jews, all over Europe.

Charles’ father had passed away unexpectedly shortly after Charles had shipped off to training—yet another raw wound to tend to—and in the time Charles had been missing, Sharon had remarried a gold-digging brute called Kurt Marko, packed up Raven and Kurt’s son Cain, and moved into the austere palace in America.

The four of them—Sharon, Raven, and the Markos—lived in a house that could comfortably board a hundred, while being waited upon by a full staff of servants. The war had been like a radio program for them, or a book; when they wished to go back to their comfortable lives, they simply turned the set off or dogeared the page and closed the book. They lived in comfortable ignorance, while Charles had lived with—no. He would not go there, not to that bright corner of his memories, not now.

The light there was blinding, and with it, brought tears.

He had ached with the loss when he’d first returned home, like a piece of him had been taken. No, not taken—ripped away, leaving the place around it torn and raw and ragged. Everyone had been kind because he had been in the War, politely averting their eyes when Charles would find himself crying.

He _missed_ Erik, missed his sharp angles and sharp accent, the way his mind reached out to Charles’ and let Charles see everything. Not being able to feel Erik’s mind was worse than being dead, he thought. He would reach, as far as his powers would go, but every time, Charles came up empty.

He clutched at his blankets, sobbing until he couldn’t breathe and his head became uncomfortably congested, that whole first year when the war was still on. He feared for Erik, wondering if he’d even know if the German was killed or captured. Would a piece of Charles die, too?

Now, seven years later, the ache was familiar and dull, something he carried with him every day, like the heavy pack he’d carried when he was a soldier.

_I am still a soldier_ , Charles reminded himself, _I will always be_.

 

There was to be a party at the estate, which was the reason for Charles’ mother’s incessant badgering.

There would be all the society types, as well as several very fashionable poets and artists.

Charles loathed these events, even more so now that he had seen brutality in the extreme. How silly everyone was, dressing up lavishly and preening like peacocks, gossiping and drinking and not knowing anything. Their minds were shallow and boring, some just plain offensive; Charles hated the way they chattered and droned, even in his mind. It took all of his energy not to hear them.

The most fervent gossip of late was in regards to a poet whose first collection had just been published that past February, causing quite the stir.

Apparently, some of his poems were decidedly ribald odes to the male form.

There were a great many love poems, all in a distinctly freeform style which some couldn’t stand, but that others were positively obsessed with.

Charles had immediately been enrapt, the first poem he read being one titled simply, _Bed_.

It read like this:

_O, my soft and trembling one—_

_lay down your head so that we might make a manor of_

_our wealth of sheets worn thin by will—and won’t._

_Your eyes sing summer blue—_

_so sweetly they burn and flutter shut_

_when skin meets skin and I might die to touch your cheek—_

_Rose Red._

_Arching columns,_

_ivory-white but flushing redder_

_give me the supple solid plane of your chest,_

_wrap me in your golden, aching— Please._

_Please. Please. Please._

_Let me, my summer prince, enfold you—_

_keep you close in my arms, breathing; living still_

_Let me wake, my Song of Songs, and find you still beside me._

_And if, my Ganymede, you are gone from me, then let me sleep again,_

_and dream._

The first time he’d read it, Charles could not believe his eyes.

He felt his the back of his neck grow warm, like he’d peeked in a window and seen someone undressing.

This was a poem, a _love_ poem, written almost undoubtedly by a man about a man. Granted, the words were vague enough (other than ‘prince’ and ‘Ganymede’) so people read into it what they liked, but Charles knew.

He had known that it was someone like him, someone who had loved a man, perhaps lost him as well.

Charles was somewhat nonplussed to find fat, salty tears splashing down onto the page; the rest of his afternoon that day was spent with his nose in the little volume, heart clutching and squeezing as the words wrapped around it.

There were other, less salacious works in the collection, but the ones that truly captivated readers were the love poems. They were dizzying, as though the author (a man called, mysteriously, M. Volk) intended the reader to feel the power of his love.

Charles was a devoted follower after reading _For You_ , the collected works of M. Volk, and the fact that the poet was rumoured to be attending the party was the only reason Charles had agreed to come out of his rooms at all.

He hated getting dressed in his silly tuxedo, combing his hair and putting on cufflinks— _cufflinks_ , of all things—just to fit some ridiculous standard of society.

Instead, Charles resolved to wear his dress uniform, adorned with medals and stripes of which he felt he was wholly undeserving. The uniform would make many uncomfortable, because it would remind them that the War happened.

That—as far as anyone knew—Charles had been MIA in German territory for over a year. (Never mind the fact that he had come back looking well-fed and in fair health, mended wounds except for his carefully hidden broken heart.) The British and American doctors had marveled at how well his wounds had healed, especially the one in his leg. One remarked that it could not have been better cared for had a surgeon been sitting at his bedside.

The old wound still troubled him sometimes, when weather was bad or he had overexerted himself; Charles did not mind it, though, for it made memories resurface clear as day of the man who had sat watch over him.

Staring at his reflection in the full-length mirror, Charles took notice of the purplish skin under his eyes, a ghoulish colour which made obvious his lack of sleep.

Sleeping was difficult, even though he was safe in his luxe featherbed. He was troubled by his mother’s drinking; it had only grown worse with the second marriage, and Kurt Marko seemed far more concerned with schmoozing and spending Xavier money than taking care of his new wife.

Charles wasn’t overly fond of the younger Marko, either; he’d caught Cain spying on Raven while she bathed through a hole in the wall, and had had to restrain himself from using his powers for anything more than simply making Cain lose interest and wander off.

_Bugger it all_ , Charles thought, annoyance flaring suddenly.

Then, he heard his mother calling him from downstairs, something about Raven needing help with a paper on the Classics.

Charles reached out to brush Raven’s mind with his, and she mentally begged him to come down and save her from their mother’s drunken rambling.

He sighed and pushed his hair back from his forehead, closing his eyes for a moment before shouting back that he would be right down, just a moment.

.........

 

Everyone was in their best, and champagne bubbles seemed to be in the very air.

Chandeliers twinkled and music filled in the gaps between the many conversations taking place in the grand hall.

Already, Charles had been made to smile stiffly and shake hands with people for photographers, answer questions about his time on the front while trying valiantly not to let his smile crack and fall.

Raven was brimming with excitement, positively beaming from all of the luxury in the room. She was wearing her disguise, of course, but Charles thought she was beautiful no matter what shape she took. Her tawny brown hair was in an elaborate twist of curls and waves, and Charles had to admit with a warm wash of pride that his baby sister had never looked lovelier.

“Oh, Charles, isn’t it just the _most?_ ” she clasped his arm with one of her satin-gloved hands and babbled on about this person’s dress or that man’s business.

Charles let her talk, half-listening while he scanned the crowd for anyone who looked like they could be a brilliant poet. He was jerked back into reality, though, by his mother gliding over with some poor trembling rabbit of a girl in tow.

“Charles, this is Celestine Fairbanks, Judge Fairbanks’ daughter? Celestine, darling, this is my son Charles. He’s a war hero, you know.”

Charles fought the urge to scowl and roll his eyes, instead offering a polite handshake to the girl who looked as though she’d rather evaporate on the spot. Her mind was as trembly as her hand.

“It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Celestine. You’ve a lovely name, and face to match.” He used to be such a terrible flirt, charming and winsome; Charles knew that it would please his mother to see him acting his old self, thereby causing her to take leave of the conversation in hopes that something might blossom between the two young people.

Celestine, the poor lamb, flushed scarlet. It would have been very attractive, Charles decided, were he at all interested in the female species romantically.

It was a pity, he thought, that apart from a few here and there, he absolutely was not.

Still, Charles’ mother whisked Raven away to talk to some lawyer or businessman or other, leaving Charles and Celestine to make semi-awkward conversation over their flutes of champagne.

“Is it true, what Mrs. Marko said? Are you really a war hero?” the girl asked timidly, blinking large grey- green eyes up at Charles.

He bit the inside of his cheek to keep from being snappish; it was sometimes best to let people think what they wanted.

“Ah, yes. That. I suppose it’s true, in a manner of speaking. Anyone who survived Dunkirk could be called a hero.”

Celestine faltered, looking slightly abashed. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to pry, honestly. It must be difficult for you, living the way you did before—before all that war business, trying to act as though nothing’s happened.”

He could hardly conceal the surprise he felt at that, and felt as well a sharp surge of affection for the girl. She had a kind heart, clearly. He found no falseness in her mind or her words.

Charles softened, felt his shoulders lose some of the tension. “Yes, in fact, that’s just it. How ever did you know?”  

Celestine looked down at her feet, then back up. Her gaze lingered on Charles’ face for a few seconds before she averted it again.

“My brother was called away, to fight in the war. We got a letter a year later saying he’d been killed. Mortar fire,” she added, as though repeating the words from a script. “My parents act as though he’s—on holiday, or something. On bad days, they pretend he never existed at all.”

Charles wished fervently in that moment that he could give Celestine the sort of love she wanted. She deserved it, he felt, even after knowing her all of ten minutes.

She was a sweet girl, and honest as well. Taking her hand in his, Charles squeezed it gently and gave her a look which he hoped conveyed all of this.

“Thank you, Celestine. You’ve no idea how badly I needed someone to just—I don’t know— _admit_ it. Admit that the war happened. I’m sorry about your brother,” he said earnestly, meaning it.

“You are most kind. And I am sorry for you, Charles. Perhaps. . . perhaps someday we could meet for tea and talk some more.”

“I’d like that very much.” Charles replied honestly, squeezing her hand once again before letting it drop gently. Celestine smiled, and looked as though she had more to say, but whatever it was got cut short by the microphone-amplified voice of whichever rich, charismatic person they’d chosen to emcee the event.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I would like to thank each and every one of you for attending this little get-together. Now, if you would be so kind to turn your attention to the stage, one of the most up-and-coming talents in Post-War poetry has agreed to grace us with a reading of one of his poems.”

Charles’ heart began to beat a bit faster, he was so keen to see just what this M. M. Volk fellow looked like. Was he old? Young? Perhaps he was foreign.

He excused himself from Celestine and made his way closer to the stage so as to get a better look.

“If you’ll all give him welcome, with no further ado, here is Mr. M. M. Volk, reading a selection from _For You_.”

The applause was polite and enthusiastic. Charles heard a few whistles from further back, and chuckled because he knew it was most likely Raven.

The laughter died in his throat when Volk took the stage, though, clad in all black and standing straight and tall as a statue.

“This piece is called _Blue & Red_. Thank you.” he said crisply into the microphone, speaking clean, nearly-perfect English.

_Nearly_ -perfect because there was a curve and angle to the words, an accent from a country ravaged by war.

Volk began to read, and Charles struggled to stay standing.

 

 

“My world was iron and steel, grey.  

You rent my alloyed canopy with your blue and your red.

  Red— red lips, licked and split, shine like fruit;

red blood, soaks through cotton-linen-white.  

Red blood blossoms, stains, scarlet cheeks flushed.

Blue— blue skin, cold and damp, cemetery-mottled;  

blue sea, rolling-crashing-foaming-raging

at the sand where blue eyes,   summer flower blue clouds,

open and catch me.

Blue and red,

my mind is full of you and all your colours.

Even now,   even now.”

 

 

Charles felt that he might faint. The man on the stage, giving freely of himself to these people, was someone whose face Charle had burned into his mind.

How could he have ever forgotten the chiseled planes of that face, the sharp cheekbones and strong jaw? More importantly, how could Charles ever forget the sharp, pure channels of that mind?

Even with fashionable, slicked hair and an immaculate suit, he was the same man.

Charles knew he needed to leave before he did something truly mortifying, like cry, or cause a scene.

The audience was hushed for a moment, lost in the imagery of Volk’s exquisite words, bursting forth with raucous applause once they shook the spell.

Pale, steely eyes pierced out from the stage, searching. They came to rest on Charles, and he heard in his head, clear as day

_Charles—_

But Charles heard no more, for he moved gracelessly through the crowds of well-dressed people until he’d pushed through the doors to the terrace and garden outside.

...

Charles’ heart was pounding like it would burst out of his chest.

He was desperately fighting tears, and his throat felt like it would choke him.

The garden was not well-lit, but it was at least lit, and he stood shaking, standing on a little bridge over the pond and staring out at the water.

It was mad, like some kind of drugged dream.

  M. M. Volk was _Erik_ , _his_ Erik. Those poems, it seemed likely, were written about Charles.  

A hand on his shoulder nearly caused him to shout, so startled was he at the interruption of his thoughts.

When he turned to see whose hand was resting upon his shoulder, Charles found he could not hold himself steady any longer.

“Dear God, can it really be you?” he wondered aloud, voice shaking. “I’ve dreamed you so many times, I rather think this is a cruel hallucination.”

Erik—for it _was_ Erik—looked caught between joy and anguish. “Charles, _mein Freund_ , you’re shaking.”

It was absurd, this whole thing, and Charles could not help the manic giggle that escaped his throat.

“I thought you’d died, Erik. I—” he felt raw and exposed now, utterly at a loss for what to do. “I couldn’t feel you anymore.”

“I never stopped reaching,” came Erik’s reply, low and hoarse and perfect.

  Charles felt dizzy, like he might fall over or die right there in his parents’ garden.

Instead of fainting or expiring, though, he raised a hand to his temple (more out of habit than anything) and projected as calmly as he could.

_There is a cottage on the far side of the grounds of my parents’ estate, it is unused by anyone. There is a key under the hydrangea next to the door. If you still. . ._

Charles faltered for a moment, because what _were_ they to each other? Fearing his voice might fail him, he reached out again tentatively with his powers.

_If you wish it, we can meet there, but you must linger here for thirty minutes before leaving. I’ll be waiting._

Erik nodded earnestly, fixing Charles with a heated look before turning to head back inside to the party.

 

 

Charles was trembling all over as he set out across the grounds for the old keeper’s cottage.

...

When he had finally managed to steal away from the party, it had been nearly an hour, so Erik found himself at a half-run as he reached the stone cottage.

There was a lamp glowing in the window, and his chest squeezed at the thought of Charles waiting for him.

_He has already waited long enough. As have I._

Not bothering with the key, Erik fiddled with the heavy iron lock using his gift for a few seconds before giving the door a push so it creaked back on its hinges.

“Charles?” he called softly, not sure why he was being so quiet.

There was no one else around.

_Here_ , came the reply directly into Erik’s mind.

It didn’t startle him as much as he thought it might. In fact, feeling Charles’ abilities reaching for him at all was like letting go of a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding.

Erik sought out the origin of the voice like a hound after a fox.

He nearly fell to his knees and wept when he came upon the little bedroom where his Charles was lying tangled in a mess of sheet and blanket, uniform folded neatly and resting on the dresser.

“Don’t make me wait any longer, please Erik.” the boy who was not really a boy anymore begged, and how could Erik refuse?

He removed his shoes and shod his suit in record time, falling upon Charles as though he would devour him.

When their lips first brushed, it felt like coming home.

It was like seeing heaven. Erik knew he was kissing the other man fiercely, but he could not relent. To feel Charles in his arms again was _everything_.

The time passed in a dreamlike haze, all sleepy bronze and gold like some enchanted kingdom in a fairytale.

They bit and bruised and tasted, taking and giving six years’ worth of passion and need and relief. When it was over, both men spent and breathing hard, limply tangled in each others’ limbs, Erik felt wetness on his own face.

Charles shifted in Erik’s arms so that he could look at him face to face, the younger man’s features achingly soft with affection.

“Oh, my friend, do not cry for me.” Charles pled gently, his eyes so incredibly, piercingly blue even in the low light.

Erik wiped uselessly at his eyes, not truly caring if the tears fell.

“I cry for myself, _liebling_. I am a selfish man whose wish has been granted in spite of that fact.” he breathed, tracing the scar on Charles’ freckled shoulder where the German bullet had grazed him all those years ago.

Realistically, Erik knew that they did not have long together in this little cottage. They could hardly stay there until morning, but he couldn’t bring himself to be the first to leave.

His heart had swelled and filled, fit to burst, and he felt drained and weak from the heavy influx of emotion he had experienced this evening. It occurred to him that some of the overwhelming feelings he was experiencing were not only his own, but Charles' as well, being projected.

Charles was still propped up on one forearm, gazing at him with something like wonder, lips so red it was obscene.

“I don’t think I could bear to lose you again, Erik.” he said quietly, closing his eyes and sighing with pleasure as Erik rubbed his shoulder with his thumb using a steady pressure.

“Then, you won’t.” he replied, pulling his soldier down for a kiss. “You never lost me, Charles; we were merely parted by time and distance for awhile.”

Charles chuckled softly, smiling so beautifully that it made Erik’s heart clench and squeeze in his chest.

“You truly _are_ a poet, darling. Such lovely words for such a sad thing.” And he laid back down, settling into the crook of Erik’s arm and resting his cheek on Erik’s chest.

“We’ll have to leave in an hour or so, you realize.” Charles remarked, his crisp accent making the words seem practical and not at all like the heart-wrenching difficulty it would surely be to part company.

Erik sighed and lifted his hand to tangle long fingers around the silken strands of Charles’ hair, slightly stiff and waxy from the pomade used to keep it neat.

“Can I see you again? Soon?” he managed to sound far less nervous and anxious than he truly felt; the thought that this might be ripped away from him for a second time, it clawed at his mind leaving tracks of worry in its wake.

Charles nestled himself even closer, hot puffs of his breath tickling Erik’s bare chest.

“Surely, you must know I could deny you nothing. I would—” he cut himself off, biting his lip, leaving Erik to wonder at what Charles wouldn’t allow himself to say.

After all the secrets that had passed between them, what could be so frightening that Charles could not speak it aloud here and now?

Erik said this to Charles, who sat up and fixed him with a wide-eyed stare. Erik noted with pleased amusement that Charles’ cheeks had flushed suddenly, and he was gnawing at the fleshy red fruit of his lower lip.

“Alright,” Charles started, running an absentminded hand over the lean muscles of Erik’s torso “But you mustn’t laugh.” he narrowed his eyes in a pitiful attempt at a glare.

Erik had to bite the inside of his cheek so as not to. He nodded, feeling the corners of his lips tugging into a smile.

Charles exhaled a bit shakily, running his tongue across his lips in a quick, taunting swipe; it was a little tic which Erik had been driven mad by since first he’d noticed it.

Charles locked eyes with him, face nearly scarlet.

_I would have given up everything, if I could have stayed with you, Erik._

For several moments, Erik sat in stunned silence, heart hammering out frantic, tribal rhythms in his chest.

It was too much to hope for, he had always told himself. Too big a wish, that his little English soldier would carry the same inextinguishable flame over seas and years.

Erik had spent those years writing maudlin poems and killing Nazis who escaped punishment. Tracking Schmidt.

He was sure his face was a foolish caricature of surprise.

“ _Fuck_ , Charles,” he said finally, voice hoarse and near-cracking. “Come _here_.”

Charles came, and Erik pulled him down for a bruising kiss, wrapping his long arms tightly around Charles’ smaller body and pressing their skin together as though he could absorb Charles into himself.

“Come to my hotel tomorrow. We’ll have privacy to—talk,” Erik spoke urgently, nose nudging against Charles’, their breathing labored.

Charles nodded, whispering _yes_ , into Erik’s mind, that he would come, that nothing could keep him away.

When at last they parted, Erik leaving first in his carefully adjusted clothing and slightly rumpled hair, it was with the uplifting knowledge that this was not another goodbye.

 

Upon returning to his rooms at the hotel, Erik all but collapsed into an armchair, nearly choking with relief and happiness.

Charles had lived.

He was alive, and they had found each other again.

 

Perhaps Erik's sins were not so great that he would forever be denied.

 

...

 

The next morning came after a night that lasted far too long for Charles, trapped in his overly large, empty bedroom with only himself for company.

It took ages for him to fall asleep, and even then it was fraught with tossing and turning and nervous turns of his stomach.

From the moment he awoke for the day, it seemed to drag on torturously, each minute passing like an hour. Charles was on edge, irritable and anxious for the clock to signal that he could escape the stuffy, gilded cage of the estate and make his trek towards that small sliver of blinding brightness.

_Erik._

His stomach was all in knots, and he had to work very hard not to lose his temper when both his mother and Raven had pointedly remarked at his lack of appetite at the breakfast table.

No one seemed to notice, however, the way his hands trembled, and the deafening thud of his heart went unheard by anyone but Charles himself. He was allowed to do as he liked now; everyone was too uneasy around him since his return.

Charles mentioned that he was going on errand for the day and possibly the evening too; he knew full well he had no intentions of returning for the night if he were afforded the opportunity to stay elsewhere. His mother had merely frowned and refrained from comment, while Raven looked eager as if she were hoping for an invitation to come along.

When none was given, she slumped back in her seat and tried not to look too much as though she were pouting.

Finally, after an unbearable span of time filled with half-read articles and uncomfortable fidgeting, the hour came for Charles to get into the town-car with his driver Wyndham at the wheel, heading down the winding country road to town at long last.

Charles fidgeted and worried his lower lip until he tasted iron and salt. The trees and fields began to blur into an impressionist painting out his window, and he was glad of the distraction of watching the scenery change.

“There you are, sir.” came Wyndham’s crisp voice from the front, and Charles realized with a twinge of panic that they were pulling to a stop at the curb in front of the nicest hotel Westchester county had to offer.

Charles thanked Wyndham and gave him a bit of change for his troubles and a few more just because he was like that, and a few moments later he was standing all alone in front of the hotel’s old brick facade, wondering what the hell to do next.

Recalling suddenly that Erik had told him to speak to the concierge and have them phone Erik’s room, Charles steadied himself and strode in through the gilded doors with his head held high and his shoulders squared.

Social status and military rank demanded he do this, and it was a good thing, too; he was so nervous, without false confidence he would have had none at all.

“May I be of some assistance, sir?” the thin, mustachioed man at the front desk stared neutrally at Charles.

“Yes, thank you. Could I trouble you to ring room 32? I’ve an appointment with Mr.—Mr. Volk.”

“Certainly, sir.” Charles could have kicked himself for the slip, but it had apparently gone unnoticed by the concierge clerk, who was already twirling the rotary dial with the receiver up to his ear.

He realized, belatedly, that he could just as easily have used his telepathy to get past the concierge and glean the information needed to find Erik’s room.

“Sir? You’ve a guest in the lobby, a Mr—?” he looked at Charles, who supplied his last name readily. “A Mr. Xavier to see you, shall I send him up?” a pause, and then, “Very good, sir. I shall.”

The telephone receiver was placed back into its cradle, and Charles found himself under the guileless gaze of the concierge once more.

“You may go up to Mr. Volk’s rooms, on the third floor and to your left. We have stairs and a lift, whichever you prefer.”

“Thank you kindly.” Charles slid a crisp bill onto the desk before hastily heading for the stairwell.

He tended to tip freely and frivolously when he was nervous, especially with American money, as he was still getting accustomed to it. The climb up to the third floor gave Charles several minutes to consider his actions thus far; this was madness, this wild and dangerous thing between himself and Erik. Why on earth did he continue down this path? And yet. . . And yet, he knew there was no other choice, not truly.

He had lived his whole life without Erik, and it had been a weak, half-full sort of a thing. When he’d first looked into Erik’s mind, and when he’d seen Erik’s incredible powers, Charles had known, finally, that Erik was what had been missing.

Later on, after his return to England from France, he tried to go back to that shell of living and found it left the taste of ash in his mouth.

He was not so foolish to think that it could go on forever, but he was still a young man. The world had not broken him so thoroughly that he no longer held a tiny flickering candle of hope for himself.

Charles found himself at the door marked with the brass placard reading 32, and raised his hand to knock twice, hesitantly.

There came no immediate reply, but a few seconds after, the door swung in on its hinges to reveal Erik, color high on his sharp cheekbones, eyes wild and hungry.

“Please, come in.” he offered politely, stepping to the side so as to allow Charles to enter.

Charles was all at once rather dizzy with the implications of it all; the secret rendezvousing, the fierce, pulsing want that infiltrated his mind nearly every minute of the day. They truly were tumbling down the rabbit hole now, he thought.

Once inside, Charles attempted to calm himself by taking mental note of his surroundings.

The walls were newly repapered with a linen wallpaper, and there was a sitting room with a desk, a sofa, and a fireplace. A door at the opposite wall was left ajar to show a tantalizing glimpse of a large bed.

“Would you care for some tea? Perhaps something stronger?” Erik asked with a curious tilt of his head.

He was waiting for Charles to react, to instigate as he had once done.

Charles nodded, finding his voice. “Yes, please. Brandy, if you have it.”

Erik quirked his lips in amusement and set about fixing two brandies on a small beverage cart in the corner.

“ _Gott in Himmel_ , Charles, sit _down_. You’re making me nervous, hovering like that.” His back was turned away from Charles, but the tone colouring his voice was fond and teasing, and Charles did as he was told, letting go of the breath he didn’t know he had been holding.

The sofa was more comfortable than it looked, and Charles closed his eyes for a moment, resting back against the plush cushions. No sooner had he done so, though, Erik came with the drinks, setting them down on the handsome oaken coffee table in the center of the room.

“You look like a present, sitting like that with your eyes closed and throat bared, Charles. I should think you mean to entice me.”

Erik’s voice had become a low, silken purr, closer to Charles’ ear than he’d anticipated.

Opening his eyes, he was mildly startled to see that Erik had deposited himself onto the sofa just inches away from Charles without so much as a noise or a dip of the cushions.

They were impossibly close now, and Charles was reminded, by some silly, trembling part of his brain, that their first kiss had taken place on a sofa.

Charles felt two natures at war within himself; there was the half of him that desired Erik with the same fierceness, the same intense lust with which Erik wanted Charles. There was also, though, another part of Charles which felt embarrassingly shy and _young_ here in front of Erik, in private.

He struggled, feeling his cheeks flush, to meet Erik’s eyes.

Swallowing thickly, he reached over and traced the sharp angle of Erik’s marble-cut jaw. Erik’s eyes fluttered shut at the touch, and his elegant hand came up to cover Charles’ own, keeping it there.

“Would that I could keep you here, Charles.” he breathed, taking Charles’ hand and bringing it to his lips, pressing them to the flesh of Charles’ palm.

“Show me,” Charles whispered, afraid his voice might break on the words. In the hours that followed, clothing was shed in a trail to the bedroom, and love was traded in whispers and sighs and groans.

Charles fell asleep, exhausted and sated, in Erik’s arms where he had always slept best.

…

The afternoon stretched languorously into evening, and the lovers did not stir until half-past six, cool breeze drying the sweat on their skin through the open window.

Erik had been dreaming of an endless golden field, bathed in glorious, easy light. There had been wildflowers and tall, pale grass. In the center of the field, in a clearing, had been his Charles, standing there. Waiting for Erik.

In the dream, Erik had gone to him, cupping Charles’ cheek and speaking freely of love. Then, suddenly, the light had taken a grayish cast.

The loose white shirt Charles was wearing darkened with a stain that seemed to bloom faster than the eye could see.

Dream-Charles had frowned, glancing down at his abdomen before looking back up at Erik with questioning betrayal in his eyes.

The blossoming patch on Charles' shirt was blood, and soon his eyes rolled back into his head and his knees gave out, Erik catching him and frantically saying his name again and again.

Erik awoke with a jolt, feeling clammy-hot the way one feels just before sweating out a fever.

He immediately reached for Charles, nearly choking with relief when his search was met with soft skin. Pulling the smaller man into his arms, the curvature of their bodies fitting as neatly as though they had been made a matching set, Erik pressed his face into the nape of Charles' neck where his sweet scent was the strongest.

“ _Mmm_ —quite a lovely way to wake up, this.” Charles' voice was still groggy and thick with sleep, but Erik could hear the smile in it and picture the devastating curl of those red-red lips.

Erik could not bring himself to speak about the nightmare; he did not want the acrid fear that had overwhelmed him to leak in, to sour the delicate, sweet thing that had lain dormant in them both for so long.

Instead, he tightened his arms around Charles' middle, resting one large hand protectively, possessively on the his abdomen.

“I’m afraid if I don’t hold you tightly, you’ll vanish, like smoke. Like vapor.” Erik murmured against the tender shell of Charles' ear.

It sent a shiver through the younger man’s body, and Erik was overcome by a wave of emotion.

He knew, with an eerie certainty, that he would walk through fire and darkness for this boy.

“Did you know,” Charles said suddenly, voice more awake and sober, “that all those nights in the cottage, with you, I felt the same way.”

Erik did not speak, and Charles continued, turning over in Erik’s arms so he could look up into his eyes with that piercing blue gaze.

“I don’t—I don’t mean that I felt like you’d vanish. . . more like—more like I was frightened that _I_ would. That I’d wake up in some foxhole covered in dirt and gunpowder, that it would all have been a dream.”

Erik’s heart clenched painfully at the smallness of Charles' voice, and he longed to go back in time to that year in France, to let no doubt exist surrounding the nature of his feelings for Charles.

All those months, carefully tiptoeing around one another, trying desperately to hide that which they each thought to be a dark and solitary secret. It was a bitter sort of amusement with which Erik recalled the evening he had furiously touched himself to Charles' image in his mind, and the shameful contrition that had followed.

“There will be plenty of time to talk about dark and gray things, _liebling_. Shall we set about finding something to eat?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *breathes heavily*


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things take a turn; Raven has her say. 
> 
> Bubbles always burst, you know.

 

_Summer 1948, Raven Xavier_

 

Raven was infatuated.

The angular, stoic German poet who had inexplicably become a fixture in the Xavier-Marko house lingered in Raven’s mind, ever-present even after he’d gone.

Charles seemed in better spirits for all of Max Volk’s visits, and the pair of them could often be found playing chess in the upstairs parlor or strolling the grounds arm in arm, faces and bodies animated with their conversation. In truth, Raven had never before seen her adoptive-brother so full of life, his cheeks flushed and eyes bright for the first time since long before the War.

(She felt that this must be at least part of the reason for the powerful, almost obsessive affection she harboured for the poet. Her brother was everything to her, and seeing him delight at life made her heart fill to bursting.)

At first, Raven had been too shy to interrupt their lengthy visits, daring only to peek around corners and in doorways so that she might glimpse the object of her infatuation. One day after a week or two of this, though, Charles had noticed her spying and, instead of chastising her or shooing her away, he had extended his telepathy and invited her to join them. Soon, Raven began to look forward to Max’s visits almost as much as her elder brother seemed to, waiting on the settee by the window like a puppy for the black car that would deposit long, sharp, devastating Max Volk onto their front drive.

Raven wondered, when she lay awake nights in her bed, whether her mother and Kurt might approve of Max for her. Surely they could see what a true friend he was to Charles, and surely they would not object to their only daughter falling in love with such a good, kind man. Could they deny her this, when they had denied her next to nothing, all her life? Raven imagined the day that she revealed her feelings to Max constantly, and with different scenarios involving various romantic or commonplace locations.

Her favorite went something like this:

 _Max is waiting for Charles, but Charles, due to some miscommunication or scheduling error, has gone out. Raven is the only person at home, and she insists that Max stay for tea. They take tea in the sitting room, and eventually the conversation turns to poetry and literature, and Raven offers (shyly) to show Max some of her own writings. Max enthusiastically agrees (something she has trouble picturing, due to his generally severe nature) and so she, with trembling hand and fluttering heart, reads a poem she has written about her love for Max. When she finishes, Max is staring, open-mouthed, gray-green eyes piercing. For a split-second, Raven is mortified that she has overstepped, but then all of a sudden she is in Max’s arms, being embraced passionately. He tells her he feels the same, ten times over. He asks, no, begs her to marry him. They share a heated kiss. Fade to black. Roll credits_.

Raven had entertained this fantasy many times. So many, in fact, that sometimes she forgot herself in Max’s company, realizing with horror that she had been staring at him with a dopey expression for several minutes.

…

One day in late August, when it became hot and boring, and Raven was beginning to wish summer holidays would end and she could go back to school, something happened.

She knew that she shouldn’t, she didn’t need to anymore, but Raven decided she would like very much to spy on her brother and Max.

It was mid-afternoon, and the two men had gone up to Charles’ study in the east wing of the house, presumably to play chess and drink brandy and generally just enjoy one another’s company. Creeping quietly with bare feet, Raven positioned herself at such an angle that, if she leaned just so, she could perfectly make out the two armchairs and their occupants without herself being seen.

In profile, Max was just as handsome as he was straight-on; he had a long, aquiline nose, and a defiant chin paired with his strong, square jaw made him rather striking. The curtains were drawn over the windows, which made the room seem darker, as though it were evening only for them. The lamps washed everything in their amber glow, and Raven thought she might die from wanting Max so much.

She could hear every word they said, if she concentrated hard. Max made some teasing remark, his tone fond as it often was when he spoke to her brother, which made Charles flush and duck his head.

“. . . Still so shy, Charles? I thought by now you would be used to my wicked tongue.”

This made Charles go utterly scarlet, and Raven became aware of a strange feeling tucked behind her ribs, like a pebble in a thin-soled shoe.

“You’re terrible, Erik, _honestly_. I don’t know for the life of me why you must constantly embarrass me to the point that I blush like a schoolgirl,” Charles spluttered exasperatedly.

 _Erik?_ Thought Raven, confused.

Max was smiling, thin lips curling upward. He tilted his head, a motion which only made him more statuesque in the low light.

“I feel I should mention, once again, how many odes have been composed in praise of that blush, _liebling_.”

The German word was, without doubt, some endearment or other.

The silky, unbearably fond way Max’s voice delivered it left no room for doubt. The tone of his words was a low purr, playful and full of unspoken things. Raven realized she was gripping the hem of her skirt so that her knuckles were white.

She did not move, or make a sound; she was frozen.

“Erik, you can’t—you’re really serious, aren’t you? I suppose I should tell you that my ego is likely to become horribly inflated if you keep up this line of conversation,”

Charles, still blushing considerably, had the same softness to his voice when he spoke, and the two men were staring at each other from across the small chess table as though they shared some private joke.

“Shall I compose a new one now? I must admit, the muse is heavily upon me in this moment. Inspiration is not to be ignored, Charles.”

There was a pause that could have lasted days or only seconds, before Charles made a sound, low and deep from his throat, like a sigh and a growl.

“Oh, just come here, will you? You beastly creature,” Charles said, voice turning hoarse.

“A beast, am I? Very well,” Max replied, low and teasing.

Raven did not move still; she watched, with wide, unblinking eyes as Max Volk—Erik— _whoever_ he was—slid out of his armchair onto his hands and knees to crawl across the short distance to rest in the space between her brother Charles’ legs. She felt herself go hot all over, hot and sick like she hadn’t felt since she’d heard Charles was going to fight in the War.

Raven saw, God help her, as her brother pulled on the fabric of Max’s shirt, bringing him up for a kiss.

“Your skin is the softest, loveliest rose in England,” Max half-whispered, as if reciting a poem, laughing when Charles tried to bat him away and scowl.

“If you don’t stop that this very moment, I shall have to—”

“—Shall have to what, O cruel master of mine heart? For I should like to leave my mark upon your precious skin, so that all who see you could know that that crimson-pink flush, those fine golden-red hairs, and every single tiny freckle that bears the honor of resting upon your shoulder are not free for the taking—”

“—Erik, _please_ ,” Charles’ protests were half-hearted at best, for he was laughing breathlessly, and at some point he had been dragged down from his chair so that his back rested against the chair’s base where Max had him caged in.

Max leaned in to whisper something that Raven could not hear, and then the kissing resumed, more fiercely and heatedly than before. She choked back the scream bubbling up at the back of her throat, and fled down the hall to her own rooms, feeling dizzy and betrayed and horrible.

She closed the door behind her, not a moment later curling up in the corner to weep.

…

When the hour grew late and Max had finally gone, Raven had splashed her face with cool water and waited for the redness round her eyes to dissipate before stalking down the hall once more to Charles’ rooms.

The door was shut, and Raven did not bother knocking as she normally would.

She’d planned carefully the words to say, resolving to try and sound grown-up and mature about the whole situation.

When the moment of truth came, though, Raven found all of her preparation escaped her.

“How _could_ you, Charles?” Raven hissed, dropping her glamour and revealing her blue, natural flesh. She couldn’t resist slamming the door shut behind her.

Charles sat in the armchair that Max had sat in all afternoon, looking rather startled at the abrupt intrusion.

“I’m sorry darling, but how could I _what_ , exactly?” He sounded utterly confused, and it only served to fuel Raven’s anger.

“You. Max. I saw you, here. I _saw_ you.” Her voice cracked, and tears pricked at her eyes unbidden.

The colour went out of Charles’ face at once, and he stood up, his eyes wide and filling with terror.

“Please, Raven, you must let me explain, I—”

“—Explain what, Charles? How you and Max, how you—together—you’re bloody _queers_ , you’re disgusting! Yes, please do explain it to me!”

It was a lucky thing that Sharon and Kurt were not home; the noise would have brought their mother scurrying in, always eager to add her two cents to an argument.

“Please,” Charles tried again, raising his hands slowly “If you would just hear me, please, it’s all I ask.”

Raven nodded, feeling impatient. She wanted to make him suffer. She wanted to _tell_.

_Erik—Max, as you know him—is a German refugee. He’s—he’s like us, Raven. He has a gift._

“Stay out of my head, Charles!” Raven hissed, with such force Charles recoiled as though he’d been slapped.

“I have carried this secret with—with such _shame_ , Raven—for the entirety of my life. Surely you must know that I am different.”

His eyes were on her, searching, hoping. “I don’t—no, I _can’t_ love a woman the way that I love Erik. And, Raven, I do love him. So much that it tears me apart inside. We met during—during the war. When we were reunited here, years later, we found we each could not live without the other. Do you see?”

Charles’ eyes were shining, full of tears that were threatening to spill onto his cheeks, which had taken back some of their colour.

Raven was shaking, unsure what to say or do. Half of her wanted to swallow the barbed lump of injured pride that stuck in her throat, to swear that she would keep her brother’s secret at all costs because he deserved the happiness brought to him by Max—Erik.

The other half, though, was bitter and selfish and still a child. She was angry and hurt, and felt very very foolish.

“I shall keep your secret, Charles.” she said slowly.

“I cannot thank you enough, Raven—”

“—I’m not finished. I shall keep your secret… but only if he marries me.”

The look on her brother’s face was almost comical; true confusion overtaking the brief relaxation of his features at her initial statement. A line appeared between his eyebrows, his blue-blue eyes questioning, fixed on Raven.

“What?” he asked, disbelieving.

“You heard me. I want—I want Max, or Erik, whoever he is, to be my husband. If he agrees, then you may carry on whatever sordid, vile affair you wish, and I shall keep it secret.”

Charles took a step closer, fear making his eyes grow even larger and more desperate. The tears began to roll, fat and glinting in the lamplight, down his flushed cheeks.

“Raven, no, please, do not do this. Do not ask this of me!”

“It’s your choice, Charles. Either Erik takes me as his wife, or you both will stand trial for sodomy.”

Stiffly, Charles nodded, the tears flowing freely now and turning his skin red and blotchy.

 

As she left him to his pathetic, weak crying, Raven thought bitterly with a wave of fresh hatred how unfair it was that Charles looked so lovely, even in his lowest moment.

Victory did not taste quite as sweet as she had anticipated, and the smug feeling of accomplishment did not last long as she laid in her bed and tried to rid her mind of the image of Charles’ shattered expression. She had to think rationally now. After all, she was going to be getting married.

…….

When Charles had told him of what had transpired with Raven, Erik felt as though he’d been punched in the gut.

Rage boiled up inside him like it had not in some time.

He immediately refused, swearing fiercely and furiously that he would not do it. In his righteous anger, he raged that he would rather die than commit to love anyone but Charles in a church, in front of God and everyone else.

Meanwhile Charles sat, limp and listless, on the sofa in Erik’s living room.

(Erik had rented a flat near the hotel he’d been staying in, so he wouldn’t have to worry whether the staff were taking note of the numerous visits payed him by the younger man.)

The haunted look in Charles’ eyes was what was frightening Erik most of all; he could tell that the telepath had already resigned himself to this blackmail, and it had left him shattered.

“What would you have me do, Charles? She is your sister, and she is one of our kind, but I feel I could kill her in an instant, given the chance.”

Charles’ nose and eyes were red from crying, his lips puffy and chapped. He shifted against the couch cushions, running a hand through his disheveled hair.

_Hush, Erik. Let it go._

“You must do it, darling. I can’t—I _won’t_ let her ruin you. If this got out, I’d be discharged and stripped of honours, but you…you’d be deported, or thrown in jail, I cannot endure that. You can’t ask me to.” Charles’ voice was ragged and thick, but his face told Erik that he meant every word he said.

“But why does she want me?” Erik demanded, trying to grab for his fury as it began to ebb away. Charles stared at him warily, one thin brow arching.

“Really, love. It isn’t like you to be so deliberately obtuse.”

Erik frowned, crossing his arms impatiently. Charles rolled his eyes and sighed exasperatedly, and the sheer normalcy of it nearly crushed Erik for want of it.

“Oh, for the love of—she’s got a terrible crush on you, Erik. Ever since she met you, and you were kind to her. I expect that beneath the scandalised shock of finding out about us lies a very jealous little girl.”

Erik felt weak and powerless, like an innocent man sentenced to death.

Charles had told him that Raven intended to allow them to continue the ‘affair’ as she’d called it, but that all outward appearances must speak of his deep, abiding love for her. The thought made him want to scream, to rip shelves from the walls, to be sick. He longed to bend every piece of metal within five kilometers of him.

Erik had thought Raven was a sweet girl, bright and sunny, and clever too. He’d never seen her mutation, but Charles had spoken of it countless times, beaming with pride. So it was, Erik could not have fathomed this cruel streak.

“I will speak with her on my next visit, but please Charles.” Erik knelt down before Charles where he sat on the sofa, meeting his eyes and pleading silently. “Can we pretend, for tonight, that things are different?”

Charles’ lower lip trembled, eyes impossibly large and still so unearthly blue, before closing them, nodding his assent.

 

 

They spent the remaining hours of the day and long into the night not exchanging violent passions in bed, but doting on one another the way husband and wife would do. It was easier than either of them should have liked to admit, this pretended domestic bliss.

Erik could see himself gray at the temples, still teasing Charles to the point of indignant spluttering. He could see, as he lay with his head in Charles’ lap while Charles read aloud from a novel, a happy, comfortable future with his lover. It was all the more disconcerting to know that they would never have this dream-future of Erik’s most jealously guarded fantasies.

 

When it was time for them to part, Erik found he couldn’t look Charles in the eye.

The telepath looked up at him sadly, reaching out gently with his gift.

Erik embraced him roughly, burying his nose into Charles’ neck and breathing deeply his scent. He projected as strongly as he could, feeling wrecked.

_I love you so terribly, you know._

Charles kissed him lightly, just once, before leaving. He sent Erik just one thought, even as his back was turned, and it made Erik shiver and want to cry. 

 

_I do know it, darling._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm just thrilled to pieces that everyone is still following the story! I love hearing from you, and I am still a total worm for not updating sooner. 
> 
> <3<3<3 
> 
> You are all lovely. Hopefully, I shall update once more over the weekend.


	9. Chapter 9

The wedding was held in the church Charles’ mother had attended since the move to America, sitting stiffly in his dress uniform on wooden pews much like the ones he once kicked and swung his legs from as a boy.

  
Raven looked radiant, even in her normal-human disguise; her hair waved and curled to shining, soft golden perfection. Her dress, and the light streaming through the stained glass window above the altar, made her look almost angelic. Charles felt a pang of sadness that he couldn’t be happier for his sister on her wedding day.

He wished fiercely that things were different.

Charles tried valiantly to keep his eyes from wandering over and settling on Erik, whose body language and expression screamed fear, anxiety, and discomfort. He looked handsome as ever in his crisp, expensive suit, his hair combed and face clean-shaven.

A few old women tittered that the groom looked nervous, chuckling about cold feet and wedding day-jitters. Charles knew better; he knew that the greenish cast to Erik's face and the dark circles shadowing his eyes meant he had been up all night.

It felt like the ceremony took ages, and when it came time for the vows, Charles actually feared that Erik might protest, might refuse.

In the end, he repeated the words tersely, quietly so that people in back of the church surely could not have heard. Instead of staring lovingly at his new bride, Erik had fixed his eyes on Charles, boring into him with his gaze from up at the altar. Charles felt sick.

He averted his eyes when the couple kissed. He felt faint, too hot under his collar.

The tear that escaped to roll mutinously down his cheek went unnoticed by anyone other than himself, so Charles did not wipe it away. And anyhow, to the outside observer, it would only seem an older brother overwhelmed with the reality of his baby sister growing up and getting married.

  
He did, however, spend the entirety of the reception getting utterly pissed in a corner whilst trying not to watch the new couple dance their first dance.

……………

It had been a month since the wedding, and Charles was actively avoiding his sister's calls to the house. She and Erik had moved to a house purchased for them by Charles and Raven's parents, a few miles down the road in the next county.

Charles went on as best he could, though each morning he awoke to the memories of what had transpired flooding back in vivid color, making fresh the stinging wounds he tried so carefully to hide.

It was like a crushing weight on his chest, like being trapped underwater in a sinking vessel, all the air gone, no will to fight. He kept to his rooms, reading and writing, hiding. His mother and stepfather left him alone, and were in truth, absent more often than not, away on weekends and visits to Raven and Erik's new home.

It ate away at Charles, to not be able to ask after Erik, to not know how he fared or whether he was happy. But would it hurt more if he found that Erik was not as miserable as he himself had come to be?

He knew that his powers were strong enough, could extend for miles and miles with little effort on his part, but he also felt that doing so without Erik’s permission would be a deep betrayal of trust. And so, he kept his telepathy to himself, did not hover around Erik’s familiar, streamlined mind the way he so longed to do.

Charles found he was growing accustomed to life alone in the house with only his own self for company, despite the burgeoning sadness lodged deep between his ribs like a piece of bullet. He was able to write his memoirs (uncensored, with an entire part devoted to his affair with Erik; someday, maybe, it would be accepted) in peace, answering to no one.

When he was feeling particularly mean-spirited, he would chide himself for ever having been silly enough to think he could go on being happy, and tell himself that he’d better get used to living like a hermit. In some ways, Charles could see himself being mildly content as a hermit; he could keep to himself and cry all he liked and read and not ever have to put a false, brave face on for anyone again.

.

  
It was not two days after that small epiphany, that Raven called on the telephone to say that she and Erik would be hosting a dinner, and that he was to come promptly at six, and that she wouldn’t hear anything otherwise. She even hung up before Charles could get a word in edgewise.   
  
Marriage had sharpened his sister, polished and whet her like a blade. So smooth and sleek were her beguiling edges, the cuts went unnoticed until blood started to seep through your clothing.

Charles struggled with what to do for this impromptu intrusion into his own private kingdom of suffering, but decided in the end that he ought make himself presentable.   
  
Trimming carefully the gingery beard that had started to cover the lower half of his face quite densely, Charles felt as though he were returning to himself. He was still the same man; short, compact, muscular, and freckled. It seemed to Francis, though, that something had irreversibly changed in him.Charles combed his hair neatly into place, patted tingling aftershave onto his cheeks and over his beard, and did up the buttons to his shirt.   
  
Raven and Erik would be touching up last-minute, she shifting into her human disguise, he washing the ink from his fingers. Raven had mentioned that some others would also be joining the lot of them for dinner as well. It was, Charles thought pointedly, his own private circle of Hell.   
  
Drawing a deep breath, he descended the wide staircase with careful steps, leaning on the railing for support. His driver was waiting with the car, and the whole way, Charles had to stop himself from thought-pushing poor Wyndham to crash into a telephone pole or a tree.

.

“Charles, darling! Come down and give me a hug, it’s been ages!” Raven exclaimed brightly, throwing her arms up before Charles could even begin unbuttoning his overcoat.   
  
His body seemingly under the control of a higher power, Charles did just that, finding that his eyes pricked with tears to hold his little sister in his arms, despite what she had done to him, and to Erik. She was still, after all, his only sister.   
  
When they parted, his eyes might have been a little red-rimmed and watery, but nobody made mention of it.   
  
Erik stood silently, jaw muscles working as though he was swallowing all the things he wished to say. Charles could not meet his eyes.   
  
He was then ushered into the dining room, a splendidly-decorated picture out of a glossy magazine, where there were four others already seated around the polished mahogany table.   
  
“Allow me to introduce my wonderful big brother, Charles Xavier,” Raven said airily.   
  
“Ah, the soldier!” exclaimed a small man with dark hair and darting, clever eyes. “We meet at last. I’m sure you and Captain Rogers will have plenty in common to talk about, old war heroes such as yourselves. I’m Tony Stark, by the way, and this firecracker across from me is my wife”—  
  
The aforementioned redhead, statuesque and regal, rolled her eyes and smiled at Charles.   
  
“Virginia Potts-Stark, but everyone calls me Pepper.”   
  
“Delighted to meet you both,” Charles managed to say. He knew very well the Starks, at least by reputation. The only man richer than the Xavier family, really.   
  
“Thank you for your service,” said the—well, quite frankly, stunning—blonde Adonis seated beside Tony Stark. “I’d prefer if nobody called me ‘Captain Rogers’ outside of the base. Steve is just fine.”   
  
“And you for yours,” Charles replied politely. He sat down beside Pepper, in-between her and another redhead. “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”  
She tilted her head, like a cat, and she may have been smiling, but it was rather hard to tell.  
  
“I didn’t give it. Natasha Romanoff, it’s a pleasure, Charles Xavier.” she shook his hand and twinkled her eyes at him. “Raven, you never said he had such blue eyes. Like mediterranean sky, they are.”   
  
Charles blinked. He recognized her name. He realized that he recognized Rogers as well—it would be hard not to. The man’s face had been plastered all over war bonds, propaganda—hell, they’d even made films about his unit. More importantly, though, it was his special unit that had facilitated Charles’ escape from France back into England. He wondered if Rogers knew.   
  
Conversation was a bit stilted at first, as Erik kept trying to catch Charles’ eye and push thoughts to him that Charles did not want to receive. He couldn’t, not here. Not while his sister sat at the table, beaming and chatting and playing hostess to the fullest.   
  
His shields were strong now, and though it pained him to do so, he kept them in place and made pleasant small talk with the women and made dry jokes with Captain Rogers about army life. Charles held out hope that perhaps he could survive the dinner and go home, home to cry and read in his cozy parlour.   
  
Unfortunately, when she heard mention of something Rogers had said about Dunkirk, Raven exclaimed loudly about how Charles had been there, had survived being a prisoner of war for nearly a year in France. Everyone turned to look at Charles, and he did not miss the malicious glint in Raven’s eyes. He cleared his throat, and the seconds passed at a snail’s pace.  
  
“I was fortunate,” he said at last. “The people who kept me were…kind. They made sure I was healthy, not mistreated. They helped me in the end to escape. Courtesy of some liaisons of Captain Rogers’ unit, I believe.”   
  
Raven scowled, just a brief flash over her features that disappeared just as quickly, as the conversation turned quickly to Captain Rogers’ Howling Commandos.   
Charles chanced a glance at Erik, and regretted it instantly. The other man’s features were neutral, but his eyes told all. Torment, pleading.   
  
Charles looked away again.   
  
.   
  
After the awkwardness at dinner, Charles escaped to a library on the second floor while Raven served everyone drinks and biscuits in the drawing room.  
One of the nice things about being a telepath is that no one could really sneak up on you unless you were really trying hard to shield your mind.   
  
This is how Charles knew that Captain Rogers was entering the library.  
  
“Sorry to interrupt you,” came that deep, oddly boyish voice. “I wondered if we could talk in private.”   
  
“Of course, but forgive me, whatever would we talk about?” Charles couldn’t hide his curiosity, though. He also could not help enjoying such a beautiful man.   
  
“I’m not sure why Raven hasn’t dropped the normal routine tonight. I mean, we all know about her mutation, right?” Steve said.   
  
Charles balked momentarily, but recovered quickly enough to say, “I beg your pardon?”   
  
“Really, you don’t need to worry, I—I’m not going to tell anyone. Everyone here tonight has uh, something unique about them. It’s how come I know Tony in the first place. He’s got a piece of metal in his chest that—and his wife, Pepper, she’s got a fire-based mutation. Natasha is like me, but the Russians made her. Tony Stark, though…he made me.”  
  
“He _what?_ ” Charles frowned.   
  
“Here,” Steve gestured to his temple. “You’re a mindreader—a telepath, ‘scuse me—if it’s easier, you can just look in here and get the full story.”  
Charles was too stunned to do anything but reach out gingerly with a tendril of his mind, probing in until he saw it all.   
  
It was like watching a film reel—  
  
There was the scrawny, ill boy, determined and dogged enough to keep going until someone gave him that 1A stamp on his papers. There was a young man with darker hair and a crooked grin, haloed in Steve's memory. He saw a woman with red lips and twinkling eyes, heard her posh accent so much like his own. Charles saw the grenade at boot camp. He saw the strange machine with the StarkTech logo, felt the pain and fear. He felt what Steve had felt. He followed along as Steve became first just a puppet for the media, then after the daring rescue of his…friend? He felt the icy wind cutting his cheeks in the Alps, heard the lurching of metal on the train car, saw the way Steve’s friend fell down into the swirling depths. He felt that pain. He saw suddenly that it was a pain he recognized, a very particular sort of ache and burn. He realized with clarity that this man was so much more to Captain Rogers than ‘friend’ could ever encompass.   
  
“Oh, my friend,” Charles said softly. “I am so sorry. You have lost so much more than anyone knows.”  
  
Steve’s nose had gone a little pink, and his eyes were damp.   
  
“I know that Raven said your powers, your…ability…it’s real strong. And we never got to find Bucky’s body. Tony agreed to help with all his fancy machines, but I wanted to ask you if…”  
  
“You wanted to know if your—your Bucky isn’t dead after all. And who’s to say, in a world where people like you and I exist?” Charles looked away, out the window and across the snowy acres of his sister’s land. “You’ve no idea how glad I would be to lend you my gift in this endeavor. Even if it comes to nothing…yes. Yes, of course.”  
  
Steve wiped at his eyes, seemingly unashamed of the tears that slipped from them. It was remarkable, a man of his stature and achievements, to have such a tender soul. Charles supposed he had never stopped being the scrappy, tiny youth he was when he went into the machine. Never afraid to say what he thought, even if it meant a broken nose.   
  
“You can’t…thanks. You can’t know what this means to me.”  
  
 _I need him home with me,_ Steve pushed the thought to Charles, catching on quickly to the technique. _Whether he’s dead or alive, he belongs with me._   
  
“I merely ask that you give me time to pack and prepare,” Charles offered a small smile and his hand for Steve to shake.   
  
“We leave in two weeks,” the larger man replied, grasping Charles’ much smaller hand in his own. “Thank you.”   
  


Charles did not miss the other presence slipping quietly out of the library, nor did he have any doubts even without his powers, that it was Erik. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a very short chapter, but I am posting because I am so fucking sorry it's been 2 actual years. I still get messages about this fic and I treasure every comment and every person who stumbles on it and still reads even though it's been sitting here collecting dust. I recently had a big change in my life and got out of a bad situation and I'm so glad that my writer's block seems to be receding. Please read and enjoy and accept my humblest apologies for this HIDEOUS delay. 
> 
> Next chapter, Charles returns to Europe! Maybe the Winter Soldier appears! Erik is gonna be really angry and sad! The usual.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just a little bit before we get into the nitty-gritty of the trip to Europe! 
> 
> I am so grateful that so many of you came back to read even after my wild hiatus. I'm really excited to have new plot ideas for this fic, and I'm sorry that everything I write ends up having a Stucky tangent >_<
> 
> <3

Then, a week later, the letter arrived.   
  
It was addressed to Charles using his military rank and proper title, in angular, swift handwriting that could belong to only one person.   
  
Heart pounding, ears filling with the roar of water in a tunnel, Charles shut himself in his bedroom and tore at the envelope. The letter inside was neat yet obviously fervidly written in a short amount of time. It read like this:  
  
 _My dearest Charles—_  
 _These last weeks without you have been, there is no other word for it, torturous. I see your face in my dreams. When I wake from these brief periods of respite, I want to cry out in rage and frustration that you are not truly by my side. That infernal woman will be the death of me,  
  
Charles; she demands that I treat her like some kind of goddess, all the while expecting me to deny my true nature and my feelings for you, which still run deeper than the roots of ancient trees, deeper than veins of precious metal lying beneath eons-old caverns. I curse the day I sent you away from France, Charles! Often, I imagine that we stayed there, in my little cottage, living together as married people do. No one would have bothered us, no one would have had to find out. When I saw you at that ghastly affair of the wedding, that single tear coursing down your perfect cheek, I had a violent urge to run to your side and gather you into my arms, damn what everyone would think. Sitting across the table from you felt as though an ocean separated us again, having to watch you sit in discomfort, wearing your sorrow like a beautiful veil.   
  
I could not endure it again, though I know it is likely I shall have to. Seeing you with that overgrown schoolboy Rogers stung me, Charles, though I know my jealousy is likely unfounded. The product of an unwell mind, too long untouched by yours. Unfortunately, I must end this letter now; the harpy is screeching for my presence in the parlour.   
  
I know you surely cannot write back for safety’s sake, and I accept it. Just know that you are in my thoughts, in my heart, in everything I do. I will find a way._  
 _Ich liebe dich, my little soldier.  
_  
 _Erik._   
  
The letter rattled Charles so that his hands trembled as he placed it back inside its envelope. He sat down in his armchair, staring numbly outward, slumping back against the cushions. What to make of this, then? It was perturbing in the extreme to know that he had no real way to reciprocate and make it a true correspondence.   
  
_Oh, Erik_ he sighed to himself.   
  
Raven would likely be intercepting any mail that came to their home, her eyes shrewd and assessing. Charles felt dizzy and confused, pulled in two different directions.   
He was still wounded, still aching and ragged from his sister’s successful blackmailing plot; on the other hand, though, his weak and battered heart gave a defiant leap in his chest at the letter’s passionate words.   
  
On his bed was a suitcase, half-open. Clothes littered the furniture, and drawers had been pulled out; he was packing for the trip to Europe, the mission to retrieve Sergeant Barnes’ remains.   
  
But perhaps he could still reach out to Erik with his powers, perhaps he could just let him know the situation, the mission. Would Erik welcome the brush of Charles’ mind against his own?   
  
Charles decided to try.   
  
_Erik,_ he nudged, and for one terrible moment, there was nothing.   
  
Then, all in a rush, it was like being pulled into a warm embrace. Erik’s mental shields melted for him, like metal in a forge.   
  
_Charles?_ came the shaky reply. Then, stronger, _God, Charles. I thought I’d never feel you here again. What is it, what’s happened?_   
  
_Nothing, nothing,_ Charles projected soothing ripples over the distance between them. _It’s just that I thought you ought to know that I’m leaving in a few days’ time.  
_  
A flash of sickly, nervous yellow. _What? Where are you going? Why?_   
  
As had happened many times before, Erik’s fear was transmuted into anger. His anger flashed silver-white, like lightning against a dark sky.   
  
_Calm yourself, Erik_ , Charles warned gently. _I’ll not talk to you if you rage at me._   
  
Reluctantly, Erik’s mind settled itself, though there was an ooze of blackish worry and suspicion at the far corners.   
  
_I’m going with Mr. Stark and Captain Rogers, as well as a group of some others to, well, to retrieve Captain Rogers’…may I show you?  
_  
 _Of course, Charles.  
_  
He sent the memories that Steve had given him, the memories of the man with the crooked grin and dancing eyes. The icy depths and the fall.   
  
_I see,_ said Erik. _Does he really expect to find the boy alive?  
_  
Charles’ stomach twisted uncomfortably. He had seen in the captain’s mind a tremendously large, bright-burning beacon of hope. It was more than foolish, to entertain the notion that a normal human could survive such a fall.  
  
 _He’s desperate for some kind of peace,_ Erik. Charles could not help how broken his voice sounded, even in his own head. _Surely you could understand that._   
  
_How long will you be away?_ Erik asked, that nervous yellow zinging through their connection again.   
  
_Not terribly long, three months or so.  
_  
The fear jolted through Charles’ body as if it was his own feeling.   
  
_Three months? How will I know that you’re safe?_   
  
_I’ll be alright, Erik. I promise._   
  
_…I don’t like this, Charles. Not at all._   
  
Sighing, Charles tried to send the feeling of an embrace. _No, darling,_  he said. _I hadn’t supposed you would._   
  
Erik started to say something else, but it was all becoming too much for the younger man, and so he ended their conversation rather abruptly.   
  
Opening his eyes, Charles sat up straighter in his chair. He felt light-headed, dizzy; it was perhaps the longest conversation he’d had that way, and certainly the first time he’d done it at such a distance.   
  
But, he reasoned, perhaps his improved range might yield something about Sergeant Barnes after all. He had to believe it, just as Captain Rogers had to believe it. After all, Charles had survived Dunkirk, had lived long enough to wash up on Erik’s shore. Charles' hopes and prayers were answered that evening at the gala when he'd seen Erik again, reading his poems.   
  
Maybe it wasn’t so stupid to have hope. Not if it kept you alive in the meantime.   
  
. . .  
  
 _Raven_   
  
  
She’d thought that with age, and certainly with marriage, would come a sense of confidence in herself, her true self, and yet, here was Raven in her human-glamour once again.   
  
She changed some things, nipped in her waist a bit, enhanced her bust, all in hopes of enticing Erik.   
  
That night, she planned a seduction of sorts. She waited in his bed—he slept in a separate room down the hall from her own—wearing naught but the human disguise, her lips painted a velvet red.   
  
When at last Erik opened the door, he didn’t seem surprised to find her there without a stitch of clothing on. He closed his eyes, rubbed a hand over his face.   
  
“Why do you bother with that?” he asked, and Raven frowned.   
  
“I don’t understand.”  
  
“The tricks, the false presentation. You do it around your friends, even though they accept you. You do it around me, though you know I feel we shouldn’t have to hide who we are. You seem like a silly girl more than ever in that disguise. The real Raven underneath, the one whose mutation shines brighter than any other I’ve seen, _she_ would be beautiful beyond belief. If only she gave up on the idiotic notion of baseline human beauty as the standard for all beauty.”   
  
Raven sat there, motionless, her mouth open in silent shock. Then, slowly, she let her disguise fall away. It was easier to breathe without it, she thought. Her senses were heightened; she was faster and stronger and sharper.   
  
“Beautiful,” Erik breathed. “And before you say another word, Raven, I’ll remind you that I don’t work that way. But,” he held up a finger, as if he could sense the immediate sting his continued rejection had again inflicted, “If I did feel that sort of attraction to women, I would be powerless before you.”   
  
He strode over and sat down on the bed beside her, placed a hand on her scaly cheek, and looked into her eyes with a kindness she had not seen directed at her in a very long time.   
  
“Raven, you have so much to offer the right man. Or woman, for that matter. I’m…I belong to Charles. Don’t waste everything that you are trying to get blood from a stone.”  
  
And with that, just as suddenly as he’d appeared, he stood and walked out, leaving Raven naked in his bed, tears springing unbidden to her eyes.   
  
His words played over and over in her head, and she didn’t need Charles’ powers to know it was the truth, what Erik had spoken, every bit of it. She felt strange, as though something inside her that had been holding on for a long time had finally died. She saw with eyes unclouded exactly what she had done to her brother and his lover.   
  
  
Raven Xavier-Lehnsherr wept that night, the selfish tears of the penitent guilty.   
  
. . .   
  
_Erik_  
  
  
Erik couldn’t stand it.   
  
He couldn’t stomach the idea of Charles leaving, going back to the broken, smoldering remains of Europe to search through the wreckage for someone’s dead lover.   
  
He stewed over the matter for two days, pacing and frowning, melting down all the coins in his pocket and twisting the metal into strange shapes as he fretted.   
  
Then, it came to him. He smiled to himself, shaped the lump of molten copper and brass back into its former coinage, and headed for the nearest telephone.   
  
  
Who better to search through wreckage than a man who can control metal?   
  
(It was just an added bit of luck that he happened to speak German and French fluently, Stark said jovially over the phone.)  
  
. . .   
  
  
It was the day they were to depart, and Charles had been driven to Stark Manor just ten minutes before, when a familiar black-clad figure appeared at the far end of the long drive.   
  
“Ah! There’s the last of us,” enthused Stark, rubbing his hands together. “Everyone’s accounted for. We’ve got McCoy, Summers, Rogers, Xavier, the lovely Agents Carter and Romanoff, myself, and last but not least, Mr. Lehnsherr.”   
  
Agent Carter, red-lipped and black-haired as a living Snow White, was on special loan from England, and Charles had to admit, it was lovely to hear someone with as posh an accent as his own.   
  
Hank McCoy was no older than nineteen, tall and strong—yet his owlish glasses and tweedy clothes belied his proclivity for science. Charles could sense his mutation, though, and couldn’t wait to perhaps engage the boy in conversation about it further. Alex Summers had the look about him of a soldier still not totally home from war, and Agent Romanoff looked like a wolf in sheep’s clothing with her white fur-trimmed coat and matching hat.   
  
Captain Rogers was dressed more casually than anyone, and he seemed like he hadn’t slept in a few days. Charles felt a hennish sort of worry when he looked at Steve, taking in the dark violet circles under his eyes, which weren't as clear as they regularly were.  
  
It was indeed Erik who strode to where they were gathered, carrying only a sleek black suitcase in his hand.   
  
“Sorry I’m late,” he said, eyes glinting as they landed on Charles. “I’m a bit of a last-minute sort about packing.”  
  
“Mr. Lehnsherr,” Charles felt his eyebrows climbing ever higher. “I was not aware you would be joining us on this excursion.”   
  
“We’re family, Charles,” Erik grinned toothily. “I do hope you’ll stop calling me ‘Mr. Lehnsherr.’ And Captain Rogers may have need of my abilities when it comes to sifting through metal debris. I thought I should offer my services.”  
  
“How kind,” Charles replied faintly.   
  
A month in Europe with Erik while Raven sat at home? It seemed…  
  
Well, it seemed too good to be true. He didn’t dare hope for something like this. Steve, who as it turned out was also blessed with highly acute perception, gave Charles’ back a reassuring pat. He seemed to sense that Erik’s presence had shaken Charles rather a lot.   
  
  
“Steady on, old boy,” he told himself as they prepared to board Stark’s private ship.  
  
  
.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all (◡‿◡✿). Your comments are more precious to me than gold. I will hopefully update again this week or next week!

**Author's Note:**

> Please don't hesitate to comment or leave kudos if you like the story or have questions ^_^ 
> 
> All the German was taken from a translation app, so I'm sure it's terrible. There won't be much of it in the coming chapters, so I'm terribly sorry. You'd think that being able to speak Danish fluently would make me a little better at German. You would think so, but you would be wrong (-__-;;;;;
> 
> Thanks for reading!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Cover art for "Polaris"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4766759) by [avictoriangirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/avictoriangirl/pseuds/avictoriangirl)




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